#the breakdown with his parents and this??

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 24: June 2024 - Part 5

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

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

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpiller:  GUYS. BELLE LECLERC JUST CHANGED HER INSTAGRAM USERNAME. SHE'S NOW @/belleverstappen. I REPEAT. @/belleverstappen.

🔗 (screenshot)

@/MonacoRoyalty:  WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT

@/RedBullTroll33:  So you’re telling me… Isabelle. LECLERC. is now VERSTAPPEN?????

I need to lie down.

@/FerrariF1Pain: I THOUGHT I WAS HALLUCINATING WHEN I SAW THE NAME CHANGE. SHE REALLY MARRIED MAX. AND THEY DIDN’T TELL A SOUL. ICONIC BEHAVIOR TBH.

@/F1MemeLord:  Charles: forgot Belle’s birthday Belle: changed her last name to Verstappen in front of the entire internet Me: poetic cinema.

@/gridgossip: 

EVERYONE WAKE UP

BELLE LECLERC IS NOW BELLE VERSTAPPEN

MAX MARRIED CHARLES' SISTER AND DIDN'T TELL ANYONE

IM SHAKING

@/gridgossip: 

This is the softest, coldest, most brutal reveal of all time.

No announcement.

No photo dump.

No grand post.

Just a silent name change.

And now the whole grid is screaming.

@/f1memequeen:  MAX VERSTAPPEN SECRETLY MARRIED CHARLES LECLERC’S BABY SISTERAND THEY SOFT LAUNCHED WITH A HORSE AND A USERNAME UPDATE

THIS IS CINEMA.

@/F1ChaosClub: how it started: "whose hand gave max tea on stream??"

how it's going: "max verstappen is married to belle leclerc and nobody knew and now the internet is on fire"

@/TifosiTears: charles leclerc is about to log on and have the worst 24 hours of his life i fear 💀

@/MaxIsWinning: max verstappen winning on and off the track as per usual 😌

@/WifeGuyMax: max verstappen, known cat dad and now confirmed wife guy. we love character development 💍🐎🐈

@/GridChaosDaily: the grid when they realize belle verstappen = belle leclerc = max’s wife = charles’s sister = absolute chaos

(photo attached: stock photo of a man having a breakdown)

@/FerrariTears: Charles finding out his sister is now Belle Verstappen because of Instagram is the level of sibling drama we deserve in 2024.

@/TifosiMess: Prediction:

Charles: 🧍‍♂️😭

Arthur: 🧍‍♂️😵‍💫

Lorenzo: 🧍‍♂️😳

Pascale: 🧍‍♀️🫠 Meanwhile Belle and Max: 🏇🏡❤️

@/MonacoRoyalty: So let me get this straight:

Belle disappears for weeks

Drops a horse like it’s a handbag

Soft launches her new life

NOW SHE'S A VERSTAPPEN?? I NEED TO LIE DOWN.

@/LandoSimp44:  some of you OWE the soft launch detectives an apology. they said it. they were RIGHT.

@/RedBullUpdates MAX. VERSTAPPEN. MARRIED. BELLE. LECLERC. AND THEY HID IT FROM US FOR HOW LONG???

@/FerrariPain: the way the Leclerc brothers are probably finding this out at the SAME TIME AS US 😭😭😭

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: HOLY SH*T

Lando: HOLD ON

Lando: SHUT UP EVERYONE

Lando: sends screenshot of @belleverstappen

Oscar: OH MY GOD

Daniel: I AM SCREAMING INTO A PILLOW

Lewis: I’m sorry. Am I hallucinating?? Because that says Verstappen. Not Leclerc.

George: BELLE. VERSTAPPEN. BELLE. FREAKING. VERSTAPPEN.

Carlos: Belle… changed her name…

Zhou: I THOUGHT I WAS READY BUT I WAS NOT READY

George: DID THAT JUST HAPPEN LIVE???

Carlos: I need a drink.

Alex: I AM SCREAMING.

Sebastian: Honestly? About time. Good for her.

Oscar: SHE CHANGED HER USERNAME TO BELLE VERSTAPPEN. THAT'S IT. THAT'S THE ANNOUNCEMENT.

Fernando: Max said "no press release, no statement, just pure chaos."

Daniel: Can we talk about the absolute audacity???

Zhou: Max dropping "I’m married" casually during a press conference and Belle changing her name quietly the night before Spain is PEAK Verstappen behavior.

Lando: I’m gonna cry. She’s not even dramatic about it. Just boop name change.

George: Meanwhile Charles is somewhere punching a wall.

Carlos: somewhere? Try several walls.

Lewis: No but seriously—Belle just silently won the whole internet.

Logan: It’s not even loud drama. It’s silent nuclear bomb energy.

Nico R.: Charles is probably Googling "how to politely kidnap your sister back."

Checo: Max playing 4D chess while Charles plays Candy Crush.

Fernando: And still losing at Candy Crush.

Kimi: Wake me up when someone crashes a press conference about it.

Oscar: Okay but real talk. I’m SO proud of her.

Lando: Same.

Lewis: She chose her happiness over their comfort. Respect.

Esteban: Someone check on Charles.

Fernando: No, no, let him suffer a bit longer. Character development.

Lance: Wait does this mean Max is Charles’ BROTHER-IN-LAW now???

Oscar: i just had a full body shiver

David: I would pay so much money for footage of Fred Vasseur reading this right now.

Mark: I would pay more to see Christian Horner's face.

George: NO ONE TELL PIERRE. Let’s just see what happens.

Logan: What if Belle walks into the paddock tomorrow wearing Verstappen merch. I would pass away.

Lewis: Max really married the one girl Charles forgot to look at properly. Poetic.

Nico R.: This is better than any soap opera I’ve ever seen.

Sebastian: Not Max breaking Ferrari and Leclerc family morale in one move. That’s championship material.

Oscar: Belle really said "forget my birthday? Watch this."

Carlos: Reminder: Max said he’s bringing her to the paddock tomorrow.

George: THEY’RE GOING PUBLIC IN PERSON TOO???

Oscar: CHAOS. COMPLETE CHAOS.

Alex: I have popcorn ready.

Lando: I'm not ready.

Daniel: None of us are.

***

Charles didn’t mean to open Instagram.

It had become a form of self-torture lately—every scroll a reminder of the silence on the other end of his unanswered texts, of the messages left on read, of the birthday that no one in the family had remembered except Belle herself.

But his thumb moved on autopilot during breakfast, and there it was.

Not a post. Not a story.

A name.

@belleverstappen

Charles blinked. Froze. Then blinked again.

No. That couldn’t be right.

He opened her profile.

Same photos. His sister’s profile. 

Charles stared at the screen.

Then he read the handle again.

@belleverstappen.

Verstappen.

A cold sweat started to gather at the back of his neck.

“Non… non non non…” Charles muttered, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

Across the hotel room, Alexandra looked up from her hair straightener. “What now?”

“Arthur,” he said, too sharp, holding his phone up like it was infected. “Look at this.”

Arthur, still halfway through a bowl of cereal, leaned over and squinted. He choked immediately.

“No. No, no, no. She didn’t.”

“She did!” Charles said, nearly tripping over his chair. “She changed her name!”

Arthur shoved his cereal away like it had personally betrayed him. “Wait—what does that mean? Did she get married? Wait, is this real?”

“What does it mean?” Charles asked, genuinely baffled. “Why would she—what—Why Verstappen?”

And then, like a bolt of catastrophic lightning:

“Oh my god. Is Jos Verstappen her sugar daddy??”

A sound of pure horror came from behind him.

“CHARLES!” Alexandra snapped. “What the hell?!”

Arthur looked like he had been personally insulted by the sentence. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m just saying—Verstappen! She’s going by Verstappen!”

Charles was already pacing. “She was always weirdly polite to Jos. Maybe he—maybe it’s him.He’s always lurking around the paddock! And she moved out a year ago and never told us. She quit her job. Someone’s clearly supporting her!”

Arthur looked horrified. “Charles. Please. That’s insane.”

Alexandra looked at Charles like he’d grown a second head. “You do realize Jos Verstappen is married, right? Like, currently. Publicly. Has been for years.”

“I saw her smile at Jos in Monaco!” Charles snapped. “And she said he was polite to her at the garage and she’s been so—so secretive and she quit her job and she got a horse—”

“CHARLES,” Alexandra interrupted, hands in the air. “Jos Verstappen is married.”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Arthur groaned and threw a pillow across the room. “Oh my god. This is actually the stupidest conclusion you’ve reached this month, and I was the one that thought Belle was being kept by a sugar daddy with a skincare routine.”

“IT MAKES SENSE AT THE TIME,” Charles insisted.

There was a knock, and Nicholas Todt stepped into the room, holding his tablet with the solemn expression of a man walking into a fire.

“Tell me this is not real,” Nicholas said, holding up a screenshot of Belle’s Instagram page.

“Oh, it’s real,” Arthur said, grimacing.

“Charles, please tell me this is not the first time you’re hearing about this.”

Charles opened and closed his mouth.

Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose and sat down heavily. “This is a PR disaster. If the media connects her to Max—”

“Wait,” Charles said slowly. “Why would the media connect her to Max?”

Everyone turned.

“You’re joking,” Alexandra said.

“What?” Charles asked, defensive.

“She changed her name to Verstappen,” Nicolas deadpanned. “What do you think it is?”

“She can’t be married to Max!” Charles blurted. “Someone would’ve told me!”

Joris, who had been quiet until now, finally looked up from his coffee with the most satisfied look on his face.

Joris shrugged. “Good for her.”

Charles stared. “Good for—what?”

“She’s been invisible to all of you for years,” Joris said bluntly. “And now she’s making herself seen. About damn time.”

Charles looked between them all, suddenly feeling like he was at the center of a soap opera everyone else had watched already.

“No,” he whispered. “It can’t be Max.”

Arthur looked vaguely nauseous. Joris looked like he had several things to say and none of them were polite.

Charles could feel the room closing in. “This is not happening.”

“I actually thought it might be Zhou,” Alexandra said mildly. “Or Lewis. They’re both polite. Hot. Emotionally intelligent.”

“Okay, please stop talking,” Charles groaned.

Arthur sat down beside him. “Do you think she’ll be at the paddock tomorrow?”

“If she shows up wearing Verstappen gear, I’m gonna throw myself in the gravel,” Charles muttered.

Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “No, you’re going to smile, and wave, and act like a supportive brother who didn’t forget she existed.”

"Max," he repeated dumbly. "Max Verstappen. My biggest rival. The guy who stole my karting trophies when we were twelve."

Arthur shrugged. "Apparently, he didn’t just steal your trophies."

Alexandra smirked behind her hand.

Nicolas rubbed his temples like he had a migraine.

Charles sat down heavily in the nearest chair, completely and utterly defeated.

Belle was married. To Max Verstappen. And the whole world knew.

Everyone except him.

She hadn’t said a word.

She’d just changed her name.

And somehow, that said everything.

****

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: hey you up?

Lorenzo: I am now. What’s going on?

Arthur: don’t freak out but we need to tell maman something before she finds out from the internet

Lorenzo: Arthur. Tell me now.

Arthur: Isabelle changed her Instagram username. It’s belleverstappen now.

Lorenzo: … what.

Arthur: like not “dating” Verstappen not “soft launch” Verstappen I mean she married him she’s married like legally. emotionally. spiritually. all of it.

Lorenzo: What do you MEAN she’s married to Max Verstappen?! When?! How?! WHY didn’t we KNOW?!

Arthur: because we were all too busy forgetting her birthday and ignoring her for years? just a theory. 🙃

Lorenzo: Jesus Christ. Does Charles know?

Arthur: not until like five minutes ago. he thought she was dating JOS I’m not kidding.

Lorenzo: … of course he did.

Arthur: look can you please talk to maman like right now because the whole paddock is going to know soon and if she sees this online first she’s going to cry and then go full French Catholic guilt spiral and none of us are emotionally prepared for that

Lorenzo: On it.

Arthur: thank you. 

Good luck

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Logan Sergeant, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda, and Valtteri Bottas

Charles: MAX. ANSWER YOUR PHONE.

Charles: TELL ME THIS ISN’T TRUE. TELL ME THIS IS SOME STUPID INTERNET RUMOUR. MAX. DID YOU MARRY MY SISTER?

Max: Yes.

Charles: AND YOU LET ME WALK AROUND THE PADDOCK FOR WEEKS LIKE AN IDIOT.

Max: We got married in Monaco. She wanted to keep it private.

Charles: YOU GOT MARRIED AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME??

Charles: YOU DIDN’T THINK I DESERVED TO KNOW THAT MY BABY SISTER WAS MARRYING MY BIGGEST RIVAL??

Pierre: wait wait wait what do you mean married Isabelle???

Yuki: SOMEONE EXPLAIN WHAT IS HAPPENING

Carlos: Charles—

Charles: HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN TOGETHER? HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A THING??

Carlos: Over a year.

Charles: I’M GOING TO SCREAM.

Charles: I’m going to absolutely LOSE MY MIND. You’ve all been lying to me. For MONTHS.

Charles: WHO KNEW?? I WANT A FULL LIST. RIGHT NOW. I SWEAR I WILL GO THROUGH PHONE RECORDS.

Lewis: It wasn’t our secret to tell.

George: They weren’t hiding it to hurt you. They were protecting each other.

Lando: Also, you literally forgot her birthday. You don’t exactly have the moral high ground here.

Charles: SHE’S MY SISTER.

Max: She’s my wife. Stop yelling like you own her.

Charles: SHE’S FAMILY.

Max: This isn’t about you, Charles.

Charles: SHE IS MY SISTER. MY FAMILY. AND NONE OF YOU THOUGHT I MIGHT WANT TO KNOW SHE MARRIED SOMEONE WHO’S BEEN TRYING TO BEAT ME SINCE KARTING.

Oscar: She didn’t forget to tell you. She chose not to.

Charles: SHUT UP, OSCAR.

Carlos: Hey.

Charles: NO. YOU TOO. YOU REMEMBERED HER BIRTHDAY. AND YOU SAID NOTHING.

Carlos: Because she asked me to. Because she knew you’d react exactly like this.

Charles: SO MY SISTER MARRIES MAX VERSTAPPEN AND I’M THE VILLAIN??

Max: You remember that now?

Charles: You think this is funny?

Max: No. I think it’s sad. That it took a ring on her finger and a horse on Instagram for you to realize she was gone.

Charles: You went behind my back. You should have told me.

Max: She didn’t want to. And I respect her choices. Which is more than I can say for you.

Charles: I’M HER BROTHER.

Max: Then maybe act like it. Because right now? You’re just noise.

George: Charles, this isn’t about you anymore.

Alex: It’s about Belle. And how she had to build a new life because her old one didn’t see her.

Oscar: And Max did.

Max:If you're done shouting, maybe try asking yourself why she trusted me with her future and not you.

Charles: …

Yuki: can someone please give me a recap. i feel like i skipped six seasons.

Pierre: I JUST FOUND OUT HE MARRIED HER AND NOW HE’S DRAGGING CHARLES INTO THE VOID I NEED TO LIE DOWN

Daniel: someone get Pierre a fan, he’s hyperventilating.

Charles: EVERYONE SHUT UP. EVERYONE JUST STOP.

Charles: I’M FINDING HER. SHE’S AT THE TRACK, RIGHT? I’M FINDING HER RIGHT NOW.

Lewis: Charles.

Charles: WHAT.

Lewis: Do not ambush her. You don’t get to demand explanations from someone you forgot how to see.

Charles: I DIDN’T—

George: You forgot her birthday, Charles.

Oscar: You didn’t notice when she moved. You didn’t notice when she quit her job. You didn’t notice when she stopped showing up to family events.

Carlos: You didn’t notice her.

Charles: I just want to talk to her.

Max: Then wait until she’s ready. You’ve taken a lot of things from her, Charles. You don’t get to take this, too.

Charles: You don’t get to talk to me about what I’ve taken.

Max: No? Then let me talk to you about what you didn’t give her.

Max: Time. Attention. Respect. Support.

Max: All the things she gave you without question. All the things you never gave back.

Yuki: i’m so uncomfortable but also very invested

Pierre: i feel like we should log off

Charles: ...is anyone going to back me up here?

Esteban: You kind of lost the moral high ground at “is she dating Jos.”

Logan: ngl we all knew but we also knew you’d react like this.

Lewis: This isn’t about us. It’s about her. You need to let her decide if and when she wants to let you back in.

Charles: She’s my sister.

Max: She’s my wife.

Max: And if you ever want a place in her life again, maybe start by realizing you don’t get to gatekeep her happiness.

Carlos: Max. Enough.

Max: I’m done.

The rest is up to her.

Not me.

And sure as hell not you.

***

Pascale Leclerc had always prided herself on knowing her children.

She had lived through the chaos of karting and exam seasons, through Arthur’s scraped knees and Charles’ broken hearts, through Lorenzo’s silent strength and Isabelle’s quiet brilliance.

She had watched them grow up like a garden — each one different, wild in their own way, but hers.

And yet now, as she stood in her kitchen — untouched tea cooling in her hands — she felt like she was staring at a house that had quietly caught fire.

And she hadn’t even smelled the smoke.

Lorenzo stood by the doorway, tense but calm in that way only he could be. 

He had always been the family’s voice of reason, the one who didn’t panic, who showed up with logistics when the others brought emotions.

But tonight, there was something sharp beneath his composure. A tightness around the mouth. A shadow in his voice.

“Something happened,” Pascale had said, the moment he arrived.

Lorenzo didn’t answer right away.

He looked at her — really looked at her — like he wasn’t sure how to begin. Like he was about to hand her a truth that couldn’t be unspoken.

“Isabelle got married,” he said quietly.

The words didn’t register at first. Not fully.

They sat in the air, strange and unfamiliar, like hearing a sentence in a language she hadn’t spoken in years.

“What?” Pascale asked, blinking.

“Isabelle,” Lorenzo said again, slowly. “She got married. A few weeks ago. In Monaco.”

Her breath caught.

“To who?”

Lorenzo hesitated. “Max Verstappen.”

The name hit harder than the sentence.

Pascale lowered herself into the nearest chair like her legs no longer trusted her.

“She’s… married,” she said, tasting the word. “To Max. And we didn’t even know?”

Lorenzo sat across from her. “We didn’t even know she was in a relationship, Maman. We didn’t know she moved. That she quit her job. We didn’t know anything.”

Pascale stared at the table, at her own hands folded around a now-cold mug.

It was her fault.

Hers.

Because she had believed silence meant peace. She had assumed that just because Isabelle didn’t complain, she was content.

And in doing so, she had let her daughter disappear. Slowly. Quietly. Without fanfare.

“She didn’t want us to know?” Pascale asked, voice small.

“No,” Lorenzo said gently. “Because we’ve given her every reason to believe we only care when it’s convenient. When it’s public. When it’s about Charles.”

Pascale felt her eyes sting. “I thought… I thought she would come to me, if it was serious.”

“She did,” Lorenzo said, not unkindly. “She just stopped waiting for us to see her.”

Pascale pressed a hand over her mouth.

“I didn’t even know she still believed in love,” she whispered. “After everything we asked her to give up. After everything we never gave back.”

“She did,” Lorenzo said. “And he gives it to her.”

Silence stretched between them — thick with guilt and revelation.

“I missed her wedding,” Pascale said softly.

“We all did,” Lorenzo replied. “But we don’t have to miss everything else.”

Pascale’s hand trembled as she set the tea aside. It sloshed slightly over the rim — unnoticed.

“I missed her wedding,” she repeated, more to herself than to Lorenzo.

He didn’t speak. He knew better than to offer hollow comfort.

“I missed her,” Pascale whispered. “I missed everything.”

The silence sat heavy between them, stretching until it felt like a second skin. Pascale reached for her phone on the table — out of habit, out of desperation — and stared at the screen like it might offer her redemption.

A single name burned in her memory.

Isabelle.

Her thumb hovered, hesitating over old messages, until finally, she opened the thread.

It was all still there. Every breadcrumb of her failure.

Ma chérie… I didn’t realise. I thought I messaged you, but I sent it to Charles by mistake. That’s not an excuse. You deserved more. Always. Please let me come see you. I miss you.

Even reading it now, Pascale felt the shame wash through her like floodwater.

It was a lie. She had forgotten.

Not just the day. Not just the message.

She had forgotten her daughter — in the way that mattered most.

“I lied to her,” Pascale said aloud, her voice cracking.

Lorenzo closed his eyes like he was bracing for a storm. “Maman…”

“When I messaged her,” Pascale said,  tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “After I forgot her birthday. I didn’t want her to think I forgot.  I told her I meant to text her — that I accidentally sent it to Charles instead. But that wasn’t true. I did. I forgot. I forgot the day she was born. And then I lied because I couldn’t bear the thought of her knowing that. I didn’t remember until Charles reminded us. I lied to make it seem like I hadn’t failed her. But I did. I have. Over and over again.”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I told myself she was strong. That she didn’t need as much,” Pascale continued, tears now slipping freely down her cheeks. “She didn’t fight for attention. She didn’t make noise. She just… quietly endured. I thought that meant she was fine.”

“She wasn’t,” Lorenzo said softly.

“I know that now,” Pascale whispered. “But it’s too late to be there for the little girl who cried when we sold her horse. Or the young woman who spent her graduation alone because we were all watching a race.”

Pascale looked up, eyes brimming.

“But maybe it’s not too late for the woman she’s become. The one who found someone who sees her. Who loves her enough to ask for her forever, even when she felt invisible.”

Lorenzo nodded slowly. “You’ll have to show her. Not just say it.”

“I don’t even know if she’ll want to hear from me,” Pascale said.

“You’ll try anyway,” he replied. “Because that’s what she deserved all along. Someone who didn’t need a reminder to show up.”

The air shifted slightly — still heavy, still painful, but no longer suffocating.

Pascale exhaled shakily and picked up her phone again.

“I want to fix it,” Pascale said eventually. “I don’t know how, but I want to try. I don’t want her to think we only care now because she married someone famous.”

“Then don’t start with an apology for missing the wedding,” Lorenzo said, voice low but steady. “Start with an apology for everything before it.”

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: (sends screenshots)

Lando: okay so we all agree that was… A Lot™?

George: “Then maybe act like it.” Cold. Accurate. Deserved.

Lewis: I was hoping Charles would reflect Not double down on the yelling and gaslighting

Carlos: He kept yelling “SHE’S MY SISTER” like it was a spell It’s not. It’s just a fact. And not one he treated with care.

Zhou: I’m honestly mad at him. Belle deserved better than that meltdown.

Daniel: She’s been waving white flags for YEARS. The fact that she had to marry Max Verstappen for him to finally notice is… tragic.

Logan: He tried to make it all about himself. Again.

Esteban: And he really told Max “you went behind my back” like Belle is property

Sebastian: Disrespectful. Self-centered. Deflecting guilt into rage. I like Charles. But this? This was ugly.

Lance: You could see the second-hand shame through the screen

Valtteri: Honestly, I don’t blame Max for losing patience.

Nico R.: He gave Charles every opportunity to calm down. Charles chose violence.

Oscar: “Which is more than I can say for you.” Yeah. That line still lives in my head.

Fernando: Max protected her. Period. Charles tried to make it about rivalry. One of them is married. The other is playing victim.

Mark: I love when people forget that Max is scary when he loves someone Not just when he races

David: Charles thought the betrayal was the secret The real betrayal is that she stopped counting on him, and he never noticed

George: And now he’s blaming everyone except himself.

Lando: What exactly did he expect? That she’d send a save-the-date and beg for attention?

Lewis: She already did. Every time she showed up and got ignored.

Sebastian: She didn’t disappear. She just stopped asking to be seen.

Alex: And I’m done coddling Charles about that.

Carlos: Same.

Oscar: She chose happiness. He called it betrayal. That says everything.

Zhou: Should we be worried about today?

Daniel: We should be prepared. Max said he’s bringing her to the paddock. And Charles? He’ll implode.

Fernando: Let him. Maybe he’ll finally listen if it’s in public.

Lewis: He doesn’t deserve answers. He deserves the silence he gave her.

George: And if she does say anything to him, it’s her choice.

***

Belle had never liked the paddock.

Not because it wasn’t impressive — it was. Efficient, loud, organized chaos. But because it had never really felt like hers. Not even when Charles had brought her around as a teenager, wide-eyed and silent, watching her brothers shake hands and pose for cameras while she trailed two steps behind.

She knew how invisible you could be in a place like this.

But not today.

Not now.

She stepped through the gates with Max beside her — her fingers laced in his, steady and certain — and the hush that fell over the paddock was immediate.

Belle could feel it.

The weight of eyes. The slow, sharp recognition rippling outward from person to person like a silent explosion. Some turned to look, others tried not to, but they all felt it. The shift. The fact that something had changed.

That she had changed.

Max didn’t break stride. Neither did she.

The sun was warm on her shoulders, but the Red Bull jacket she wore — his, oversized and soft — felt like armor. Familiar. Safe. She’d tugged it from his closet that morning while he was brushing his teeth, said nothing as she slipped it on, and Max had only smiled at her like she was everything in the world worth looking at.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since.

Belle didn’t smile, but she didn’t flinch either.

She looked ahead, chin high, expression calm. If they wanted something loud — a statement, a spectacle — they weren’t going to get it.

They’d get this.

Her wedding band catching the light. Her hand in Max’s. Her name — Belle Verstappen — already echoing through the internet.

Let them talk.

She heard someone near the McLaren garage whisper, “Oh my god, it’s really her.” Heard another murmur, “She’s wearing his jacket.”

Belle didn’t look. She didn’t have to.

She could feel the stares. Could feel the quiet scramble of the media trying to decide whether or not to speak. To ask. To breathe.

She kept walking.

Max leaned in slightly, barely tilting his head toward her, and said under his breath, “Still with me?”

Belle’s lips curved — just slightly. “Always.”

His thumb brushed along the side of her hand in response. The smallest touch. But enough.

They moved through the paddock like a weather system — calm on the surface, but electric underneath. Some drivers straightened up when they passed. Some looked away. One engineer dropped their tablet. Someone near the Ferrari garage gasped.

Belle didn’t look toward it.

She didn’t need to see Charles to know he was watching.

She could feel it — that specific burn of a sibling’s shock, of betrayal, of too-late recognition. And it hurt, somewhere deep in her chest. But it didn’t undo her.

Not this time.

Max gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

She kept walking.

Every step felt like reclaiming something. Every heartbeat steadier than the last.

Let them stare. Let them wonder.

They hadn’t seen her before. They hadn’t heard her.

Now they would.

Quietly. Unapologetically.

This was her life.

And Belle Verstappen wasn’t hiding anymore.

***

@/GridGossip: 🚨BREAKING: BELLE VERSTAPPEN JUST WALKED INTO THE PADDOCK HOLDING MAX’S HAND She’s wearing his jacket An emerald engagement ring And a gold wedding band I’m shaking. I’m actually shaking. 📸 (zoomed photo)

@/F1TeaSpiller: Forget soft launches. Belle Verstappen just HARD LAUNCHED HER ENTIRE MARRIAGE That’s a wedding ring, babes. A wedding ring.

@/RedBullTroll33: Max Verstappen didn’t post a wedding photo. Didn’t do an announcement. Just walked into the paddock with his wife wearing a rock the size of my student debt. Power move.

@/FerrariF1Pain: The Leclerc family watching Belle walk in like: 👁👄👁 With a RING With MAX In his jacket Wearing the smirk of a woman who’s been underrated for too long

@/f1memequeen: That emerald engagement ring is screaming “I don’t need your approval, I already have his last name” And honestly?? Obsessed.

@/WifeGuyMax: Everyone: when will Max post Belle? Max: I’ll bring Belle. Max: To the paddock. Max: With a gold band on her finger. Max: Say hello to my wife.

@/GridChaosDaily: Belle is wearing a gold wedding band and an engagement ring the size of a walnut and hasn’t blinked once Meanwhile Charles looks like he’s on the verge of spontaneously combusting

@/MonacoRoyalty: THE RING THE JACKET THE HAND-HOLDING THE WALK SHE’S THE MAIN CHARACTER

@/MaxIsWinning: Max Verstappen said:

Emerald ring ✔️

Gold band ✔️

My jacket ✔️

My hand ✔️

My wife ✔️ Legend.

@/f1memequeen: Belle: walks in calmly Internet: 💍😱🔥👗👀💀💍👑 The power of SILENCE

@/LandoSimp44: me: I’m over the Verstappen-Leclerc marriage drama also me: zooming in on the ring like it’s the Mona Lisa

@/FerrariTears: Charles is looking at that gold band like it personally betrayed him Arthur’s gone full ghost mode Pascale is probably praying in a dark room Meanwhile Belle’s just casually wearing a 5-figure emerald like it’s nothing

@/F1MemeLord: Belle: marries Max Verstappen in secret Charles: forgets her birthday Belle: walks into the paddock with a ring and a husband The plot arc is insane. The payoff? Cinematic.

@/gridgossip: MAX WALKING IN WITH HIS WIFE AND ZERO APOLOGY IS THE MOST VERSTAPPEN THING TO EVER HAPPEN

@/TifosiTears: Belle really said: you forgot me? let me introduce you to my husband and this giant green rock

***

The moment they stepped inside the Red Bull garage, Belle felt the shift.

It wasn’t like entering a room. It was like crossing a threshold — one she could never go back from.

There were voices, radio chatter, tire warmers humming. Mechanics moved with sharp efficiency. But as Max walked in with her hand still folded in his, everything… slowed.

Heads turned. Not in shock — they all knew by now. But in curiosity. 

She was part of it now.

Max dropped his bag with practiced ease, nodded at one of the engineers, and then looked back at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the room.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, just for her.

Belle nodded, though her heart was fluttering too fast. “Yeah. Just—this is a lot.”

“You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” she said quietly. “I want to meet the people who know the version of you I don’t get at home.”

Max smiled like that meant more than she realized — like she’d just handed him something no one else ever had.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Time to meet the chaos.”

Belle only had a second to steel herself before she heard the gruff voice.

“About time you brought her here.”

Jos.

He was already standing near the back wall of the garage, arms folded, mouth tugged up in something that resembled a smile. As he looked at her properly, something softened in his expression. Something almost proud.

“See you survived the vultures,” he said drily, and she couldn’t help but laugh. 

She blinked — caught off guard — and then smiled. “I’m told it’s a survival skill.”

Jos chuckled — actually chuckled — and nodded. “Good. You’ll need it.”

“Papa,” Max greeted casually, unbothered by the tension humming in the air. “Thanks for being here. You’ll keep an eye on her while I’m in the car.”

Belle blinked, surprised. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Max smiled slightly. “Didn’t want to stress you out.”

Jos’s lips twitched. Just barely.

“Sit where you want,” he said to her. “It’s quieter at the back. And if anyone annoys you, tell them you married a Verstappen. That’ll scare them off.”

Max gave him a look. Jos ignored him entirely.

Before Belle could respond, a familiar voice called out from just inside the garage.

“Well, well. You’re finally in the right garage.”

She turned — and smiled fully for the first time that day.

Gianpiero Lambiase stood near his station, headset already slung around his neck, amusement lighting his usually serious expression.

“Hi, GP,” Belle said warmly.

He approached, offering a half-hug, half-handshake that was somehow the perfect balance of affection and professionalism. “Max said you’d be here, but I figured he was bluffing.”

“I almost backed out,” Belle admitted. “Then he bribed me with his jacket and pancakes.”

“Classic Verstappen tactics,” GP deadpanned. “Food, flattery, and limited emotional vocabulary.”

Max, passing behind them, muttered, “I can still hear you.”

GP grinned, unfazed. “Welcome, Belle. We’ve all been betting on when you'd show up.”

She arched a brow. “And who won?”

“Helmut,” GP said, disgusted. “Which is horrifying.”

Max returned, tugging lightly on her sleeve. “Come on. Christian wants to meet you.”

Belle exhaled, nerves fluttering again, but she followed Max past rows of screens and engineers until they stopped in front of Christian Horner, who turned to greet them with the ease of a man who’d already been briefed but was pretending he hadn’t.

“Well, you’ve caused quite the storm.”

Christian Horner.

He approached with that signature half-smile of his, hands in his pockets, a subtle look of curiosity behind the polite charm.

“So this is the mysterious Mrs. Verstappen,” he said warmly. “Finally. The woman who managed to tame our reigning champion. Or so the rumors say.”

“I don’t think anyone tames Max,” Belle said dryly.

Christian laughed. “You might be right. But clearly, you’re the exception.”

She extended a hand, and he shook it firmly.

“Christian Horner,” he added, even though she obviously knew.

“Belle Verstappen,” she said quietly — testing the name again. Feeling it settle.

Christian’s gaze flicked to her left hand, where the emerald caught the overhead lights. “Well, it’s official now. Welcome to the madness.”

Belle took a slow breath as they stepped deeper into the garage, Max’s hand briefly grazing her lower back before he peeled off toward his car.

She watched him go, then looked around at the controlled chaos of Red Bull’s world — the data streams, the techs, the noise, the anticipation.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the outside of someone else’s life.

She was here.

She was his.

And the garage was exactly where she was supposed to be.

***

Arthur wasn’t sure what he expected.

Maybe denial. Maybe chaos. Maybe the internet was wrong — maybe Belle hadn’t really married Max Verstappen. Maybe someone had faked the name change. Maybe it was a fever dream.

But then he saw them.

Isabelle. Walking into the paddock like she belonged there. Wearing Max’s jacket. Wearing a wedding band. Holding his hand.

Arthur froze mid-step outside the Ferrari hospitality unit. His coffee trembled in his grip. For a second, he genuinely forgot how to breathe.

Because it wasn’t just that Isabelle was there.

It was the way Max glanced at her every few steps, the way she leaned in slightly when the crowd pressed too close. The way their fingers didn’t untangle, not once. Not even when flashes went off or someone whispered her name like it was blasphemy.

She looked calm. Not smug. Not afraid. Just… calm.

And that was what undid Arthur most.

Because she’d never looked like that before — not at races, not around the family, not anywhere she’d ever been expected to play the silent sibling to Charles’ glory.

She looked like herself. Like someone who had finally been given permission to take up space.

And beside him, Charles looked like he was about to snap.

“Unbelievable,” Charles muttered, voice too low and too bitter. “He couldn’t even tell me. He had to parade her in front of everyone like this?”

Arthur tore his eyes away from Isabelle — reluctantly — and turned toward his older brother.

“Are you serious right now?” he asked.

Charles flinched. “What?”

“She’s walking in with her husband, Charles. Not doing a press tour. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought maybe—” Charles stopped, jaw tight. “Maybe she’d have the decency to talk to me first.”

Arthur stared at him. “Decency? Are you hearing yourself?”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “She’s my sister—”

“And you’re acting like she’s your possession.”

Charles turned on him. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are!” Arthur snapped, stepping closer, voice sharp. “You’re acting like she owed you something when all she ever wanted was to be treated like she mattered!”

“Don’t twist this, Arthur,” Charles said, low and warning.

Arthur laughed — harsh, disbelieving. “You forgot her birthday. We forgot her birthday!”

“That was a mistake—”

“We forgot her birthday, and then when she finally chooses herself, finally chooses someone who sees her, you make it about you?”

“She married Max—”

“She married someone who shows up for her,” Arthur interrupted. “Which is more than we’ve done in years.”

Charles’ face tightened.

Arthur kept going. “You don’t get to be the victim here. Not when she’s spent years watching you get cheered while she was ignored. Not when she begged for scraps of attention and we gave her nothing.”

Charles looked like he wanted to argue. He didn’t.

“She stopped trying to be seen by us,” Arthur said quietly. “Because she found someone who already sees her.”

Charles swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the Red Bull garage where Belle had disappeared with Max minutes ago. “I just… I didn’t think she’d leave us like that.”

“She didn’t leave,” Arthur said. “We just never noticed when she stopped waiting.”

Silence.

Thick. Tense. Regretful.

Charles looked down, jaw clenched. He didn’t say sorry. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Arthur sighed and set his coffee down on the table beside him.

“If you want to be part of her life now, Charles,” he said. “You’re going to have to show her that you’re finally willing to see her. Not as your sister. As herself.”

Then he walked away, leaving Charles in the middle of the paddock — alone, surrounded by people, and for the first time, not the main character.

***

Belle had just sat down with a cup of tea in the quiet corner of Red Bull hospitality when she heard it.

A voice. Sharp. French-accented. Not loud, but unmistakably firm.

She looked up instinctively — and wasn’t surprised.

Arthur.

Standing just outside the entrance, shoulders tense, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets like he was trying to shrink into himself. He’d clearly made it through the first layer of staff with that Leclerc charm that used to get him everywhere.

Unfortunately for him, Jos Verstappen was standing by the doorway.

And Jos did not do charm.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing here?” Jos asked, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Arthur hesitated. “I just—I wanted to talk to her.”

“This isn’t Ferrari,” Jos said, voice calm but cutting. “You don’t get to stroll in here after throwing a tantrum across half the paddock and acting like your sister’s marriage is some kind of betrayal.”

Arthur flushed. “I didn’t throw a tantrum—”

“You don’t belong here,” Jos said. “Not after this morning. Not after the way your brother behaved.”

Arthur’s face flushed. “I came her to…”

“To what?” Jos stepped closer. “Apologize on behalf of Charles? Defend him? Make excuses for how you treated her?”

“No!” Arthur said quickly, hands up. “No. I’m not here for Charles. I’m here for her.”

Belle stood before she even realized she’d moved.

“Jos,” she said, voice soft but clear. “It’s fine.”

He turned toward her, frowning. “Belle—”

“I want to talk to him,” she said.

And for the first time in a very long time, she saw someone else hesitate when talking to her.

Jos studied her face for a beat. Whatever he saw must have been enough, because he gave a terse nod and stepped back. Not far. But far enough to say I’m still watching.

Arthur looked like he was bracing for impact as she walked toward him.

Belle stopped a few steps away, arms crossed loosely. She didn’t hug him. Didn’t cry. 

He stopped a little too far away, hands in his pockets, guilt etched into every line of his face.

“You weren’t really trying to sneak past Jos Verstappen, were you?” she finally asked dryly.

Arthur groaned. “I thought maybe if I moved fast enough, he wouldn’t see me.”

A faint smile tugged at Belle’s mouth. “He used to spot Max sneaking out after curfew with a hoodie pulled over his head. You never had a chance.”

Arthur groaned. “I thought maybe if I moved fast enough, he’d blink.”

“He never blinks,” she said.

He cracked a smile, brief and sheepish. “You look good.”

Her expression softened, barely. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” he admitted. “Charles is sulking like it’s a championship sport. Maman’s crying into a croissant. Lorenzo’s trying to schedule a family meeting like it’s a UN crisis summit.”

Belle sighed, gaze drifting past him for a moment. “I figured.”

He hesitated. “I didn’t come to defend anyone. Not Charles. Not Maman. I just… I needed to see you. For myself.”

She studied him in silence. Arthur had always been a little caught in the middle — younger than Charles, louder than Lorenzo, trying to carve space where there was none. He wasn’t blameless. But he hadn’t been cruel. Just… complicit.

But he was trying now.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable — just full. Full of all the things left unsaid for too long. All the messages never sent. All the birthday calls missed, the family dinners where she was present but not seen.

“You used to hide in my bed during thunderstorms,” Belle said quietly. “You’d ask me to read the same chapter of Le Petit Prince three times until you fell asleep.”

Arthur blinked, surprised. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” Belle said. “I remember the good things. I always tried to.”

His throat worked around the lump there. “Why didn’t you tell me? About Max. About the wedding. About… any of it?”

Belle looked down at the rings on her finger — the green of the emerald glinting faintly under the hospitality lighting, the simple gold band beneath it warm against her skin.

“Because you weren’t really looking,” she said. “None of you were. And I was tired of asking to be seen.”

Arthur didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue.

“I know,” he said instead, voice low and thick. “I think… I’ve known it for a while. I just didn’t know how to face it. But seeing you with Max — the way he looks at you, the way you look at you — I get it now. And I hate that it took this for me to see it.”

“It’s not about hating yourself,” Belle said, gentler this time. “It’s about doing better now. If you want to.”

Arthur looked at her like she was someone new. Someone stronger. Someone who had stopped waiting for the world to recognize her and built a place where she didn’t need permission.

“Are you happy?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

He exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding that breath all morning.

“Good,” he said. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

Belle stepped forward then, arms uncrossed, and opened them. The offer was quiet. Soft.

Arthur didn’t hesitate.

He pulled her into a hug like he was afraid she might vanish again. His arms wound around her, shoulders trembling just slightly. Belle hugged him back — firm and steady.

And it felt like something beginning again.

Not perfectly. Not fixed.

But trying.

When they finally stepped apart, Belle offered a quiet, teasing smile. “Next time, use the front entrance. Jos might not be so forgiving twice.”

Arthur groaned. “I’m still recovering. I think he aged me ten years with one sentence.”

She laughed — really laughed, for the first time that day.

Behind them, Jos gave a small grunt from where he stood — arms crossed, unimpressed — but Belle didn’t miss the way one corner of his mouth almost curved.

***

Max didn’t usually seek people out for conversations. Not personal ones, anyway.

He’d spent most of his life guarding things that mattered — like they were fragile, like they’d break if anyone else got too close. But this was different. She was different. And what they had now — what was growing quietly inside her — felt too big to carry on his own.

So he found GP.

It was a lull in the afternoon, the last briefing before the sim work, engineers rotating through data stations like gears in a perfect machine. But GP was by himself, leaning against the telemetry table, one brow raised as Max approached with the kind of expression that said, you better not be about to request a new steering wheel setting.

Max didn’t say anything right away.

GP waited.

“I need to tell you something,” Max said finally. His voice was lower than usual. Not tense — just held close.

GP straightened a little. “What happened?”

“She’s pregnant,” Max said.

The words came out smoother than he expected. Maybe because they’d been sitting on his tongue all day.

GP stared at him. Blinked once. Then again.

And then — grinned.

“Seriously?” he asked, already smiling. “Belle’s pregnant?”

Max nodded once, his throat tight. “Yeah. She told me a few weeks ago.”

GP exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. I should’ve seen that coming.”

Max raised a brow. “You didn’t?”

“I figured it was either that or you bought her a horse farm.”

Max laughed — properly, finally, the weight of the day cracking just a little. “I might still do that.”

GP was still smiling, but there was something else in his face now — something softer. Warmer.

“Kids are great,” he said, voice lower, more personal now. “I mean, chaotic and exhausting, but… they’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Max blinked. “You’ve never said that.”

GP shrugged. “Didn’t seem relevant when you were nineteen and trying to beat Lewis Hamilton into turn one.”

Max huffed a laugh. “Fair.”

There was a pause. A weight in the air — not heavy, but full.

“She’ll be a brilliant mum,” GP added, quieter now. “She’s got that calm strength to her. The kind you don’t notice until it’s the only thing holding you together.”

Max nodded slowly. “I know.”

“And you,” GP said, tapping a finger to Max’s chest, “are going to be fine. More than fine.”

Max hesitated. “Even with…”

“Even with your past? Your dad?” GP finished for him. “You’re not him. You never were.”

Max looked down for a moment, jaw tight. Then, after a long breath, he met GP’s eyes again. “I just want to give that kid something different. Something better.”

“You already are,” GP said simply. “You chose Belle. That’s your first good decision. Choosing that baby every day — that’s your next.”

“I’m scared,” Max admitted.

“Good,” GP said. “That means you give a damn.”

Max nodded once.

“I’m happy for you, mate,” GP added, reaching out and clasping his shoulder. “Really.”

Max nodded again, grateful in a way he didn’t know how to say.

“And just for the record,” GP added dryly, “I had a bet with my wife that you two would get pregnant before Charles figured out you were married.”

Max burst out laughing. “Did she win?”

“She always wins.”

Max was still grinning when he turned to leave, lighter than he’d been all day.

There was so much left to do — more secrets to tell, more people to face — but for now, it was enough that someone knew.

Someone who didn’t just understand racing.

Someone who understood him.

***

From the hospitality suite above the Red Bull garage, Belle had a near-perfect view of the final laps.

The Spanish heat shimmered off the track, waves of it rising like ghosts in the air, but Belle barely noticed. Her fingers gripped the arm of her seat, headset slightly askew, Max’s voice crackling faintly through the speakers — clipped, calm, focused.

She had never liked watching him race before she knew him. 

Now, she knew better.

Now, she could hear it in the way he spoke to GP. The way he adjusted. Reacted. Fought, not like a man trying to prove something — but like someone who knew exactly who he was, and who he had waiting for him at the end.

You’ve got three laps left, mate, GP said calmly in her ear.

Copy. Leave it with me.

Belle swallowed hard. Her hand settled instinctively over the front of her stomach, hidden by the loose navy blouse she wore. She hadn’t told many people yet — just Victoria, Sophie, Jos, and Emilie, and now GP, thanks to Max.

But this felt like a secret the whole world would eventually know.

The final sector flew past in a blur. Tyres screamed. Crowds surged.

And then, the chequered flag.

“YES! That’s P1, Max. Well done.”

Belle exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her hand flew to her mouth, and then, just as quickly, to her chest — right over her heart.

He’d done it.

 Again.

The team erupted around her — mechanics cheering, hugging, high-fiving, lifting cans of Red Bull like champagne flutes. Christian was already halfway out the door, and even Jos, who’d been watching beside her with arms crossed, allowed himself a rare smile.

But Belle?

Belle didn’t move.

Not until someone nudged her gently — a team assistant with wide eyes and an even wider grin. “He’s asking for you,” the girl said. “Go. Go!”

Belle blinked. “What?”

“Parc Fermé. He’s already out of the car. Go!”

She didn’t hesitate after that.

The hallways blurred past her — wide corridors filled with team personnel and security and overheated energy. Her flats slapped against the concrete. Her pass flashed in the light. People parted without even realizing it — as if they could feel she belonged to this moment.

She reached the barrier just as Max pulled off his helmet, hair damp with sweat, fire suit unzipped halfway down his chest.

And then he saw her.

His eyes lit up in a way Belle didn’t think he realized he saved for her. He started toward her before the cameras could swarm, before the journalists could shout, before anyone else could get between them.

He crossed to her like he knew she’d be there. Like he’d been driving toward her the whole time.

And Belle didn’t think. Didn’t care about the cameras or the crowd or the fact that Charles was likely still in his car wondering where it all went wrong.

She stepped past the barrier and met him halfway.

And then she kissed him.

There was no hesitation. No coy look at the cameras. No soft-launch subtlety.

Just her hands on his face, his arms wrapping tight around her waist, and the kind of kiss that felt like a homecoming.

The paddock erupted.

Somewhere behind them, a Sky Sports presenter squeaked. David Croft nearly dropped his mic. 

Belle pulled back only when Max laughed against her mouth.

“You kissed me in Parc Fermé,” he murmured.

“You won,” she said simply, brushing sweat-mussed hair off his forehead. “You deserve to be kissed.”

Max looked at her for a long moment, then down — briefly, instinctively — at her stomach, where no one else had noticed her hand lingering.

And then he whispered, just for her: “Both of you.”

Belle smiled. “You came home to us safe.”

Max kissed her one more time, softer now, and then turned back toward the swarm of cameras and celebration.

And Belle?

Belle stood at the edge of it all — her lips still tingling, her heart full — knowing the headlines tomorrow would be chaos.

But for now?

She had kissed her husband in front of the entire world.

And she didn’t regret a single second.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/RedBullTroll33: i thought the name change was chaos BUT THIS??? BELLE JUST WALKED IN AND KISSED HIM LIKE THEY WEREN’T HIDING FOR A YEAR I’M LOSING IT

@/FerrariTears: charles leclerc being forced to watch max verstappen win the race and then watch his baby sister kiss him like it’s a romcom finale is actually greek tragedy level storytelling

@/f1memequeen: Belle: soft-launched a horse and an emerald ring Belle: quietly changed her last name to Verstappen Belle: walks into parc fermé and kisses her world champion husband Me: sobbing okay queen I GET IT

@/WifeGuyMax: MAX VERSTAPPEN KISSED HIS WIFE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE AND LOOKED LIKE HE’D JUST WON SOMETHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN A RACE i’m unwell

@/f1memehub: sky sports: mid-sentence belle: kisses max crofty: glitches karun: gasping social media admin: pressing post like their life depends on it

@/LandoSimp44: the paddock was like “max has a secret wife” max said “here she is. in my arms. deal with it.”

@/MonacoRoyalty: SHE KISSED HIM IN PARC FERMÉ AFTER THE WIN AND HE LOOKED AT HER LIKE SHE PUT THE SUN IN THE SKY i’m crying this is cinema

@/MaxIsWinning: max verstappen doesn’t do drama he does declarations first her name now the kiss next stop: world domination

@/FerrariF1Pain: charles watching belle kiss max in parc fermé after forgetting her birthday is the most older brother consequences i’ve ever seen

@/GridChaosDaily: ���Belle kissed Max after the Spanish GP” is now officially my favorite F1 moment no context. just vibes. just love

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

@/maxverstappen1: Every lifetime, every circuit. Every time. 💍❤️

@/redbullracing: Belle Verstappen supremacy. (also congrats Max 👀)

@/emilie_abadie: this is my new phone background. and lock screen. and wallpaper. and religion. thanks.

@/pierregasly: i need everyone to stop posting this before i start believing in soulmates again

@/landonorris: i was THERE. i SAW IT. i’m never recovering.

@/f1: most liked paddock kiss of all time? confirmed.

@tifositimes: I didn’t expect to cry over a Verstappen kiss post today but here we are.

@/chaoticgridgirl: SHE POSTED IT. THE KISS. THE LEGENDARY KISS. I NEED A MINUTE. ACTUALLY I NEED A WEEK.

@/f1softlaunchdetective: this is what soft-launch girlies do when they hit their final form. she dropped ONE photo and burned the paddock to the ground.

@/maxielflamequeen: the ring. the kiss. the caption.

@paddockwhispers: arthur liked it. charles didn’t.

@softverstappen: i will never emotionally recover from this post. ever. she wins. every time.

@maxsvillainera: look at the way he’s holding her look at the way she’s smiling into the kiss no notes. pure poetry.

***

FIA Press Conference — Post-Race | Spanish Grand Prix 2024

Drivers: P1 - Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing), P2 - Lewis Hamilton (Mercedes), P3 - Lando Norris (McLaren)

Moderator: Congratulations, Max. A win today. How are you feeling?

Max:  Good. Yeah, car felt great, team executed perfectly. Always nice to win in Barcelona.

Moderator: We’ll open the floor for questions.

Journalist #1: Max, first of all, congratulations. But obviously everyone’s talking about the moment in Parc Fermé. Can you confirm — was that your wife? And are the rumors true that you and Isabelle Leclerc got married in secret?

Max: Yes. That was my wife. And yes — we got married in Monaco a few weeks ago. We’re very happy.

Lando: (muttering into his mic) Understatement of the century.

Lewis: (grinning) Congrats, man.

Journalist #2: Max, there’s been a lot of talk online about Belle’s birthday being forgotten by her family and this being the reason she pulled away from them. Any comment on that?

Max: No.

Journalist #2: Nothing at all?

Max: (calmly) No. 

Journalist #3: There’s a narrative online that Belle’s been overlooked for years. Some say this entire paddock entrance and Parc Fermé kiss was a statement. Was that intentional?

Max: (dryly)  We walked in holding hands. We kissed. We’re married. If that counts as a statement, I don’t know what to tell you.

Journalist #4: Do you think this will affect your dynamic with Charles Leclerc?

Max: (expression flat) We’ll see. That’s between him and his sister. I’m just here to race cars and go home to my wife.

Lando: (quietly, to Lewis) He’s in his “husband first, world champion second” era.

Lewis: (laughing into his mic) He really is.

Journalist #6: Do you plan on making any public statement about the family fallout?

Max: No. That’s her story to tell, not mine. And frankly, it’s not gossip. It’s real life. So maybe let’s show a little respect.

Journalist #7: What was going through your mind when she kissed you in Parc Fermé?

Max: (finally smiling) That I’m the luckiest guy in the world.

Journalist #8: Will your wife be traveling with you to more races now?

Max (still polite, still done):  We‘ll decide what works best for us as a family. That’s between us.

Reporter #9: Was Belle’s presence in the paddock today a signal? Especially given what happened with Charles—

Max: (cuts in, voice calm but firmer) Belle doesn’t need to signal anything. She’s not a statement. She’s a person. And she came today to support her husband. That’s all.

Moderator: Alright, I think we’ll wrap it there before anyone pushes their luck. Congratulations to all three drivers. Max, Lando, Lewis — thank you.

Lando (leaning into mic): Congrats again, mate. On the win and the wife.

***

Fred Vasseur closed the door harder than necessary.

The sound echoed through the otherwise silent room like a gunshot.

Charles looked up from where he was sitting on the small couch, still in his fireproofs, helmet discarded beside him. He was sweaty, tired, irritated — and entirely unprepared.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais, Charles?” Fred said sharply. What are you doing?

Charles blinked. “What—?”

“You want to explain to me,” Fred continued, voice calm in the most dangerous way possible, “how your sister kissing Max Verstappen became the story of our weekend?”

Charles sat up straighter. “That’s not fair—”

“No?” Fred crossed the room, standing over him now. “Because I think it’s very fair. You let your personal drama become a paddock sideshow, and now everyone’s talking about the Leclerc family meltdown while we limp home with a P5 and a ruined PR day.”

“I didn’t ask for that to happen!”

“But you made sure it did,” Fred snapped. “You didn’t know Belle got married. Fine. You didn’t approve of who she married. Fine. You could’ve said nothing. But instead, you threw a tantrum. In the paddock. In group chats. Loud enough that half the drivers are mocking you and the other half are wondering if you even see your sister as a person.”

Charles flushed. “That’s not—”

“You forgot her birthday, Charles.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Fred didn’t yell. He didn’t need to.

“You forgot her birthday. You forgot her job. You forgot she moved. And when she stopped chasing your attention, you acted like she betrayed you.” His voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened with every word. “And now you’re shocked that the only person she trusted to hold her hand through it all was the man who sees her every single day?”

Charles looked away, jaw tight. “It wasn’t supposed to be public.”

Fred laughed — once, bitter and short. “And yet you’re the one who made it public. Max didn’t. Belle didn’t. You did. And now you’ve made us look like amateurs — not because of strategy, but because you couldn’t handle the fact that your sister’s life isn’t orbiting around you anymore.”

Charles opened his mouth. Closed it. No words came.

Fred sighed — not in exasperation, but in disappointment. And that hurt more.

“I expected more from you,” he said quietly. “As a driver, yes. But more than that — as a man. As a brother.”

Charles flinched like he’d been hit.

“You want to fix this?” Fred said, stepping back. “Then stop sulking. Start listening. And for the love of God, don’t let Max Verstappen be the better man in every single room you enter.”

He turned and walked to the door.

“Because right now?” he added, hand on the handle. “He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters.”

And then he left.

Charles stayed seated, eyes burning, the silence pressing heavier than any helmet ever had.

***

Dinner had started out exactly the way Belle expected.

Loud. Warm. Slightly unhinged.

They were tucked into a quiet corner of a restaurant just off the Barcelona marina — the kind of place Max loved because no one there cared about racing unless it blocked traffic. The table was round, the lighting dim and golden, and the laughter had already started before the appetizers arrived.

Lando had barely let Max sit down before declaring, “You’re disgusting. You win a race and then get kissed like it’s a Netflix finale. Get out.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Max had said, completely unbothered.

Oscar, seated beside Lily, just smirked. “It was kind of romantic.”

Lily looked between the two of them with a soft smile. “Kind of? It broke the Internet.”

Daniel had toasted “to hard launches, soft kisses, and Verstappen chaos,” and Belle had nearly snorted water through her nose.

But now dinner had mellowed. Plates cleared. Dessert on the way. The kind of soft lull that usually came right before someone said something life-changing.

Max glanced at Belle. That look — gentle, checking, asking without words.

She nodded once.

He cleared his throat lightly. “We actually… wanted to tell you guys something.”

Four pairs of eyes snapped to attention.

“Tell me you’re moving to the countryside and buying a farm,” Lando said immediately. “Please. I need this arc.”

“Better,” Max said, eyes flicking toward Belle.

Belle rested her hands on the edge of the table. Her heart was fluttering, not with nerves exactly — more like awe. Like the moment was finally catching up to her.

“I’m pregnant,��� she said.

There was a pause.

A moment of stunned silence.

And then—

“NO YOU’RE NOT,” Daniel half-shouted, nearly knocking over his wine glass.

Lily gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Are you serious?!”

Oscar just stared, mouth slightly open like his brain had hit the brakes.

Lando blinked twice, then pointed between them. “Like… with a baby baby?”

Belle burst into laughter — the tension cracking wide open. Max was already grinning like he’d been waiting for this chaos all night.

“Yes, Lando,” Belle said, wiping at her eyes. “A baby baby.”

Oscar finally found his voice. “How long have you known?”

“A few weeks,” Max said. “We’re keeping it quiet for now. But we wanted you to know first.”

Lily leaned across the table, eyes wide and shining. “You’re going to be parents. Oh my god. That baby is going to have cheekbones and a death stare.”

“And probably a kart by age two,” Daniel added, now fully beaming. “Holy shit. Max Verstappen’s going to be a dad. I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down,” Oscar said, still blinking like he hadn’t caught up.

“I need to sit down harder,” Daniel muttered.

Lando reached for Belle’s hand across the table, squeezing it. “You’re going to be amazing.”

Belle swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “But… I’m also happy. Really happy.”

Max’s hand found her thigh under the table, grounding and steady. She didn’t have to look to know he was watching her with that same soft, almost reverent expression he’d had ever since she told him.

Oscar was smiling now too, the initial shock melting into something warm. “Congratulations,” he said. “Both of you. Really.”

“And selfishly,” Lily added, “I’m just glad we get to love this baby too.”

Daniel raised his glass. “To the official grid baby.”

“We’re not calling them that,” Belle said immediately.

“To Max spiraling when the baby kicks for the first time,” Oscar added, grinning.

“To all of it,” Lando finished. “To them.”

They clinked glasses — softly, gently.

And as Belle looked around at the people who had chosen her — not because she was someone’s sister, not because she was attached to a name — but because they loved her, her heart felt impossibly full.

The world could stay outside tonight.

This was theirs.

***

[jaylaxies]

CALL ME WHEN YOU HATE ME LESS

PAIRING: lee jeno x fem!reader (ft. jaehyun and jaemin)

GENRE/CW: smut, angst, eventual fluff, porn with plot, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, fingering, choking, blowjob, using panties as a gag, spitting, edging, squirting, mentions of fighting, blood, usage of nicknames, slowburn if you squint, emotional trauma, lmk if i missed anything!

WORD COUNT: 18,321 words. (18.3k)

PLAYLIST: here.

SYNOPSIS: Jeno Lee was a walking academic hazard—hot, broody, and failing just about everything that wasn’t football. Enter you, his new tutor: organized, overachieving, and absolutely not here for his attitude or his annoyingly perfect jawline. But between late-night study sessions, petty insults, and one very inconvenient almost-kiss, things start spiraling—fast. He’s supposed to be you project. You are supposed to hate him. Instead, you both are one sarcastic comment away from either a breakdown or a makeout—and honestly, it could go either way.

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni (the full fic will include smut).

A/N: hihi, angels! i'm finally back with a jeno fic aaa thank you my girls @jaeminvore @hoondrop @gojosmojodojo for giving me ideas and listening to me losing my shit over this fic <333 i hope y’all enjoy reading it <33 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <33

Chapter 1: Raised in Shadows, Told to Shine. 

Comparison. 

The core of all insecurities. The onset of overthinking. The path to self loathing. 

That’s what comparison does to a person—drive them to the edge of insanity in hopes of turning into something; into someone the others will look up to, compare themselves to. 

It was a bad thing per se, but it was motivation enough for Jeno to work harder in order to leave the country, to get away from his family. 

The reason? His mother ever so conveniently happened to have fallen in love with a rich guy, someone who never knew what struggle meant, and Jeno was just four back then. It didn’t take much time for him to settle into the lifestyle, however, no matter how much he could have prepared to face his step-brother, he simply couldn’t bother looking him in the eye. 

Why? Because he was known to be the epitome of perfection. Jung Jaehyun was the son every parent wanted, the student every teacher was fond of, the doctor every nurse wanted to work with. 

The sweet dimple on his cheek was a great asset in melting the hearts of everyone in his proximity or afar. 

Jeno on the other hand, wasn’t quite sure why he wasn’t considered to be enough, especially when he got decent grades throughout his school life, he wasn’t a bother, kind to those who were around them, but it changed. 

It changed when he got daily reminders of how he wasn’t even close to how amazing and successful his step brother was. 

That’s when things started looking down for Jeno. He stopped caring about the grades, he wasn’t sure why he was supposed to put up a I’m so good, so smart act in front of others when there was no reason for him to do that. 

Others didn’t bother doing the same for him. 

Rather, he tried to work upon the only thing he was passionate about, the only thing that mattered to him—football. 

Despite winning several trophies for playing the sport, his parents labelled it to be useless, which broke the last fragment of his heart, shattering it to the point of no return. 

Which would explain his current demeanor—moody, permanent scowl on his perfectly sculpted face and no care for the others around him. His sole focus being football, which is also the reason behind his current dilemma. 

“Being an excellent player in the sports team does not guarantee you your scholarship, Mr. Lee,” Jeno’s teacher incharge spoke up, taking off her specs right after reviewing his annual grade report, “you’re failing three out of five modules, and if you don’t start getting back on track soon, then I’m afraid you won’t be able to play in the team anymore.” 

Fuck. 

Jeno had been neglecting his studies, he admits, yet he never thought that he’d reach this point. It’s not that he wasn’t smart, he simply had no motivation to go on with his studies. His parents could easily pay the university to keep him around, however, he wanted nothing from them, which also explains why he got himself a scholarship in the first place. 

“I’m sorry if I’m late.” Jeno’s eyes snapped wide open, turning back to see his step brother entering the teacher’s cabin. 

“Why are you here?” Jeno asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching but Jaehyun only smiled. 

Jeno’s professor was equally stunned, probably even more with her jaw wide open at the appearance of such a handsome young man. 

“I called him in since your parents were busy,” his professor said, handling Jeno a letter, “go and find your tutor in the council room, she’ll be helping you with the upliftment of your grades, Mr. Lee, and now if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got to fill in your brother with your current situation,” she said the last part awfully sweetly as Jaehyun sat down in one of the vacant chairs, smiling at her kind tone. 

Jeno scoffed, the demeanor change around Jaehyun went crazy and he wasn’t a fan of it, especially when he was called in to complain about his mistakes. 

He simply wanted to leave the university and never come back. 

He waited, taking deep breaths before punching the wall, not being able to contain his anger. The impact did hurt, yet he paid no heed to it, the blood dripping as he walked towards the council room to get over with the day. 

The name written on the sheet wasn’t unfamiliar to him, rather it only wearied the already infuriated boy as he knocked on the door of the student council room, which was empty except for you sitting there, working on a few papers which appeared to be the newsletter for the month. 

“Come in,” you allowed, not looking up as Jeno made his way inside the room, observing the surroundings where he’s never been before. 

Then he looked your way, taking in your appearance. You looked cozy in your university varsity jacket, your specs sitting on your nose as you buried yourself in reading whatever it was that you were reading. He couldn’t deny you looked pretty in a way that’s comforting to eyes. 

With no words exchanged, he pushed the letter towards you, which finally made you look up at the source of disturbance, your eyebrows raising slightly as you most certainly did not expect the star football player to visit you in the council room, which he’s never been to before. 

He simply stood there, hands shoved into his pockets while still looking around, and you took a second to grab the letter, skimming over to read and understand that the letter was given by Mrs. Kim, the teacher in charge of your department, requesting you to take up the few teaching sessions you had applied for, Jeno being the student you’ll have to teach for the same. 

You clicked your tongue, folding the letter exactly as it was before pushing it his way, your arms folding across your chest as you finally spoke up, “I reject. I don’t wish to teach you.”

His eyes were quick to snap towards you, finally staring right into your own eyes, irritation clear as he pushed his tongue on his inner cheek, eyebrow raised. 

“Aren’t you supposed to kiss your professor’s feet, given that you’re in student council? And here I thought you’d be a good girl.” Jeno rasped, resting his arms on your table, leaning down to your level. 

You chuckled, expecting the exact response from him, “this is exactly why I don’t want to waste my time on you—you athletes don’t wish to study, you just require a passing grade, for which I don’t have time to spare.” 

“What the fuck do you mean waste your time?” 

“Lee Jeno, you’ve got more money with you than your bank account can handle, so I’m sure losing your scholarship won’t do you much harm,” you said with a sickening smile, “you’ve got no interest in studying, your attendance record states that oh so proudly.” 

“You don’t know shit about me,” Jeno seethed out, messy hair strands falling over his eyes. 

“I know everything I need to know about you. Now excuse me, unlike you, I actually have work to do,” you said, passing him a tight lipped smile, not letting the proximity faze you. 

“You—” 

Jeno’s sentence was cut short with two sharp knocks on the slightly ajar door, a head peeking in, successfully garnering your attention. You could feel your mood doing one eighty with the sudden intrusion of this stranger—whom you didn’t wish to be a stranger around anymore, your eyes softening, lips parting as you stared at him in awe. 

Meanwhile, if Jeno thought that the day was done being a bitch to him, then he was wrong because the level of irritation that bubbled up in him the moment he saw the change in your expressions. 

“Sorry to interrupt, may I get in?” Jaehyun asked, smiling his usual dimpled smile, which had you swooning in record time. 

You could practically see veins of frustration popping out on Jeno’s neck, “no. Your work is done, you should head back home,” he groaned, but Jaehyun only looked you way, continuing to get in, looking your way. 

“I’m Jaehyun, Jeno’s elder brother. I can’t thank you enough for agreeing on giving him tutoring lessons, especially with how busy you must be with council duties,” he spoke up, shaking your hand, which was smaller in his warm, big hands. 

Jeno scoffed, “she’s not—”

“Of course, Jaehyun! It’s my pleasure to help him out, and it’ll only help me better with my extracurricular credits! It’s no problem,” you nodded, a gentle smile on your face as your eyes practically twinkled with excitement, taking in the beauty that Jaehyun beheld. 

It was ridiculous. 

It was absurd how just two sentences; paired with a sweet smile from his brother, were enough for you to change your decision, in the span of two seconds at that. 

He tightened the hold he had on the strap of his black bag, “no fucking need. I’ll find another tutor,” Jeno deadpanned, walking out of the room, not paying attention to Jaehyun who called out his name in the background. 

He wouldn’t let you use him to get to his brother. 

With that thought, he decided to detour and make his way to the gym, trying to blow off steam by practicing punching, each one getting progressively stronger as his mind replayed the difference in your behaviour when it came to him and his brother. 

It didn’t bother him that his knuckles were bruising, he knew he needed this extrinsic pain to get rid of the obvious hurt he felt each day. 

And he couldn’t understand why he felt so affected by your actions, especially when it was the first time you had met. 

Jealousy was indeed a bitch. 

Chapter 2: Surrendered to the skirt. 

Two days passed by and Jeno’s mood showed no progress in terms of improving, rather, he felt worse each time the memory invaded his brain. He tried his best to sit down and open the first module of the unit he had to study. 

It’s not like he was bad at studying, he was just a bit out of practice, and well, his mental health wasn’t doing much to help him get any better. 

Just when he was about to actually get a hang of getting into the topic, the doorbell rang. His parents were out for business, as usual, and his step brother was busy doing morning shifts, which meant that he was alone at the mansion, minus the myriad of worker staff they had to take care of the place. 

Essentially, he had to get down to see who it was at the door, only to spot you leaning against the doorframe as one of the attendants had asked you to wait. He stopped, observing you from the staircase as you typed something on your phone. 

Why were you here after clearly rejecting him? Why were you here when he’s clearly told you he doesn’t want you to be his tutor?

Scoffing, he walked down the stairs and towards you, standing right in front of you, clearly invading your personal space as he decided to lean against the same side of the thick door frame with his brows raised.

You took a second to take in his appearance as he was clad in casual gray sweatpants with a black tank, which honestly did nothing to hide his muscles. 

“Why are you here?” Jeno asked with a bored tone. 

“I’m here to teach you, remember?” You gave him a pointed look. 

“And I clearly told you I don’t wish to study from you, it’s better if you leave now. I’ll just tell Mrs. Kim that you taught me,” he said, almost turning back to go inside. 

“And have them wondering how you failed even after getting tutored by me? Yeah, I don’t think so,” you shook your head, inviting yourself in without second thoughts. 

“Y/n, I’m not fucking kidding, you should leave. Besides, the one you came for isn’t at home at the moment,” he muttered bitterly. 

That caught your attention, “oh? Busy with a job then?” You asked, looking around the exquisite paintings hung at the entrance of his place. 

“Are you gonna leave or do I have to call the guards to escort you out?”

You chuckled, “you really don’t want the previous year questions I have? The council students get them each year you see, they’re bound to guarantee you good marks,” you explained with a smirk. 

Jeno groaned, his lip bitten as he tried to think if tolerating you would be worth the questions, but his football career was at stake and there was no better option but to accept it. 

“What’s the catch?” Jeno asked after a few seconds, sighing with defeat. 

“Nothing at all. We both know that you need these papers to get the grade that you wanna achieve and I’ll get my extra credits,” you reason. 

“You just wanna meet my brother,” he said dryly, “either way, you won’t get to see a lot of him, he’s always at the hospital, working and being the perfect son he is. Plus, he’s definitely not into uni students,” he looked you up and down, soon gulping and looking elsewhere. 

You were clad in a pretty skirt which showed off your legs—which you did wear in hopes of crossing paths with Jaehyun, but you completely missed how Jeno was staring at your body. 

He wasn’t sure if it was out of hatred that he stared at you, or it was admiration because you were one of those people he despised—overachievers.  

You were in the student council, got good grades and professors favoured you, it wouldn’t be a surprise if your parents loved you for being the ideal daughter. It most certainly didn’t help that your appearance seemed as if you were the sweetest, kindest angel on earth, which wasn’t the case when you were around Jeno though. 

“I’ll manage,” you shrugged, “so, I need your final word, Mr. Lee.”

“I am sure I can find better tutors than you,” he raised his brows, challenging you and you didn’t look fazed at all. 

“I am quite literally the best, professor Kim asked me to tutor you for a reason, besides, no one’s gonna agree to help you out with exams being only one month away,” you made your point, extending your hand for him to finalize his decision. 

Overconfidence. He sighed. 

Jeno stared at your extended hand, thinking of the bigger picture here. He’d get tutoring and would be able to score decent grades if he gets back to his usual routine of studying. 

Downside? He’d have to face you each day. 

Sighing and keeping his feelings in check, he simply nodded, taking your smaller hand into his as he accepted the offer, suddenly aware of the warmth of your palm and how it leaves a tingling feeling behind as you shake his hand firmly with a smirk. 

“So, where are we gonna study?” 

Chapter 3: Silent room, a loud mind. 

Turns out, it’s not that easy to sit down and just teach Jeno. 

Given the amount of classes he had missed, or rather, the amount of classes he had managed to attend, it was clear that he didn’t even have the basic idea of the syllabus for the semester modules. 

Moreover, you had already pissed him off by mentioning how you didn’t expect him to have such a clean and organized room, as if you had already decided that he was going to be a messy human. 

Moving forward, you both sat down next to each other with your laptop open in front of you as you made him write down all the topics he needed to cover for the next month, forming a sort of timetable of a kind. 

It was surprisingly peaceful between you two, as if you both wished to get over with it as soon as possible, behaving as civilly as you could but there was this one thing that Jeno couldn’t stop doing. 

Overthinking. 

It’s the way you looked his way with disappointed and concerned filled eyes whenever he messed up, the way his jaw clenched when you told him to do better, the way he couldn’t help but stare at your glossed up lips as you looked around his room, eyes settling on his childhood pictures which were framed. 

It was also new to him to actually interact with people outside of his football team, especially girls. He couldn’t remember the last time he had talked to one. He wondered what was going on in your mind, he wondered if you were silently judging him through it all.

That’s all what people in his life did anyway. 

“You were cute as a kid, what happened to you now?” You joked, chuckling as you looked his way, only to find his mouth slightly agape.

He hadn’t expected you to say that, and he certainly didn’t want to retort back with something that would ruin his mood, “I grew up to be hot is what happened to me,” he replied smoothly. 

“Oh, so you do know how to joke around,” you raised your brows in surprise. It was indeed the image he had formed over the years. The image of him being nothing more than a rude jock who wouldn’t even reply to someone nicely. 

Now that you were actually interacting with him, you were going to find out how many of the rumors were true about him. 

He only leaned closer at your statement, you could see his muscles flexing as he rested one arm on the table in front of you both, “it’s not a joke, love. I am hot.”

You scoffed at the term of endearment, suddenly aware of his scent now that he was so close to you, “and egoistic too,” you helpfully added. 

“Rightfully so.”

Your childish argument was interrupted that very second as the door to Jeno’s room swung open, revealing the exact man you came to see. 

Jaehyun was smiling, dressed in black slacks and a button up shirt as he welcomed you here, and you were quick to notice Jeno’s mood turning fowl that very second. 

“Thank you so much for coming here, Y/n. Let me send a few snacks and drinks for you both while you study,” he smiled, and you rushed up to stand, not even bothering about the pen that fell down as you did so. 

“Jaehyun,” you walked up to him, much to Jeno’s dismay, “oh, you don’t have to do anything,” you smiled sweetly, and he only shook his head softly, grabbing your arm. 

“Don’t worry about it, just sit and relax, okay?” He squeezed your arm, going downstairs and you sighed with a smile. Even his scent was perfect to you. 

“You done daydreaming?” Jeno asked, deadpanning once his brother had left. 

“You done solving the question?” You retorted. 

He sighed, as if his energy was drained already, “yeah, just check and get this over with,” he said, handing you the binder and looking elsewhere. 

It was probably the first time you actually paid attention to his dejected tone, as if he didn’t have the energy to fight back, and you obviously didn’t wish to irk him more, especially when he looked so frustrated right now. Thankfully, a lot of his answers were indeed correct, which was another surprise to you. 

He was smart, he just simply didn’t wish to study. 

“Something wrong?” He asked, cocking his brow and you blinked, “you’re actually not as dumb as you portray yourself to be,” you mumbled, checking everything thoroughly. 

It should’ve been insulting to Jeno per se, but even the slightest amount of approval was a big thing for him, causing the corner of his lips to curl up. He felt insane, the amount of emotions he felt in a single day was perhaps the reason for the same, courtesy of you. 

He was glad Jaehyun didn’t enter the room again, sending in a servant staff to give you the snacks instead, which maintained the peace throughout the session. 

You couldn’t help but notice how well he concentrated once there was silence in the room, your eyes focused on his hand gripping the pen, making it seem more veiny than it already was. 

Also, you didn’t miss the hint of a smile ghosting his face when you told him he did a good job right before leaving, which made you think of a few things, one being— 

He looked beautiful with a smile. 

Chapter 4: You can’t read my mind, so read my lips. 

As much as Jeno loved the comfort of his room, he really wanted to avoid you bumping into Jaehyun again.

Even the thought of your interactions, your fake sweet smiles, made him wanna punch the wall. Jaehyun really had it easy and Jeno never understood why, it was no joke that Jeno was decent looking as well, talented in his own way, and a kind hearted person who just happened to have a protective wall around him so as to not get hurt any further. 

Which is why you had been tutoring him in the library from the past ten sessions, his own personal request to avoid having privacy with you. 

Heck, even Jeno didn’t know it was his own mind trying to protect him, which is why he couldn’t let anyone in, anyone.  

Which made this situation far from ideal as he had you pressed against the library wall, no distance between you both as you closed your eyes in pure distress. 

“What the actual fuck is he doing here?” Your question was directed more to yourself, which confused Jeno further.

He poked his tongue into his cheek, annoyance creeping through, “what the fuck is going on?” He asked. 

“Shhh, not so loud,” you pressed your palm against his mouth, “just hide me.”

He rolled his eyes, grabbing your wrist effortlessly, pinning it above your head, “you don’t tell me what to do, yeah?” He mumbled, flustering you under his gaze before your eyes travelled back to where you were looking initially. 

He sighed in annoyance, looking back at the direction of your supposed fear. 

Na Jaemin. Another of Jeno’s football teammates. 

“Why are you hiding from Jaemin,” he asked, brow raised as he leaned into you. 

“Ugh,” you groaned, “he��s my ex, he shouldn’t even be in the library, he’s never here!” You were stressed and Jeno smirked devilishly. 

“Fucking hell, you’re the girl he keeps on stalking and crying about?” He chuckled, “let me call him,” he turned away for a second. 

You used your free hand to grab his nape, “don’t fucking move,” you mumbled. 

Perhaps you were too harsh with the grabbing, also not calculating the proximity enough, because Jeno’s nose was brushing against yours, lips close to the point of touching, and a low groan escaping his lips as your name rolls out his tongue in the most angry grunt ever, “what the actual fuck are you doing?” 

“J—just let him leave,” you mumbled, gulping and closing your eyes, his mint breath fanning your face as heat crept up your neck, up till your ears. 

“What will I get out of it,” he asked, his free hand resting on your waist now, “why should I help you?”

“I’m literally helping you study, Jeno,” you seethed out.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he groaned, making you open your eyes, staring into his deep ones now, suddenly feeling small under his gaze, and well, his body. 

“What?” you asked, looking away to check if Jaemin had left, pushing Jeno away the second you confirmed it. 

Jeno, however, wasn’t having any of it. 

With a scoff and the shake of his head, he grabbed your wrist again, twisting it behind your back, not putting too much pressure so it just hurt but still made it clear how he would not let you go so easily, “you can’t run from me.”

“Let go, I fucking swear—” you let out, squirming around and pushing him, he didn’t budge at all sadly. 

“You do realize I’m a lot stronger than you, right?” He chuckled. 

“Fuck—what do you want me to do?” You rolled your eyes, jaw clenching as you looked at him. 

Before he could answer, your eyes widened in fear yet again as you yanked his arm so forcefully, he had no chance to balance himself, a yelp leaving his mouth as you ran and he was following right after you. 

Jaemin was back and you could just not deal with his ass anymore, hence the overwhelming response. Fight or flight? Flight for sure. Dragging Jeno into it might be a stretch but hey, whatever helped you run away from the gremlin, right? 

“Y/N,” Jeno hissed yet again, once you stopped by your seat, gathering both yours and his belongings scattered across the table from when you were studying a few minutes back, before getting up to find a book, before seeing Jaemin roaming around the halls of the library. 

It was quite amusing to Jeno if he was being honest, a mix of feelings as you grabbed his wrist effortlessly yet again, your eyes set on the exit door leading to the parking lot where Jeno’s Ferrari Purosangue stood proudly. 

“Get in!” You screamed even though you were far from the threat (read: Jaemin) now. 

“That’s my car in case you forgot—”

“Now.” 

“So fucking annoying—” He grumbled, with a small smile playing on his lips. 

You looked so bothered as if you were chased by Ghostface and not Jaemin, even though you probably wouldn’t run away from the prior. It was comical regardless, the long breath you exhaled once you were comfortable on his premium quality car seat, head leaned back fully. 

You opened your eyes after a few seconds only to find Jeno’s eyes on you, face curved into an amused look. You stared at one another for a second, two seconds, three seconds—and he burst out laughing. 

It was probably the first time you saw him laugh like that—so freely, without any care in this world. It was loud but breathless, making his eyes crinkle with small crescents forming, his perfectly aligned pearly teeth showing as he went on, laughing at your disheveled state and crazy response to everything that happened the past twenty minutes. 

You were calm and composed for the most part, it was rare for you to look this frustrated over anything, which came as a surprise to Jeno, the whole situation seemingly pure comedy to him. 

You observed him so carefully, your own lips twitching into a smile and before you knew it, you were laughing alongside him so normally as if two friends were laughing over a joke. 

A weird sort of warmth spread over your body, it made no sense honestly, you were pinned to the wall just a few minutes back and Jeno looked as if he’d burst into flames with his anger, and now he’s laughing at your disheveled, non-composed state. 

Once Jeno caught you staring back at him with glittering eyes, and a little smile, he froze. It was easy for him to come back to his senses (read: put his walls back up) which only made your smile drop too. It was awkward, both of you looking elsewhere while clearing your throats, definitely not something you expected. 

“Uh—sorry about that, yeah,” you mumbled, playing with the loose threat of your sweater sleeve. 

“Yeah, no problem,” he retorted, turning the car engine on to start driving. 

Why was it awkward? Because you laughed together like two absolutely normal individuals? Because you had Jeno pinning you to the wall to avoid your ex? 

Or because you almost kissed. Almost. 

 The ride back to your apartment was silent, no songs playing in the car, just the small buzz of engine, and the nail tapping on the screen of your phone—to avoid any kind of conversation happening, also clearly missing out on how Jeno glanced at you every few seconds, the speed of his thoughts running faster than his own car. 

“I’ll—see you tomorrow then?” Your voice cracked as you said so, wincing slightly at your own tone. 

Jeno was about to chuckle again, yet he covered it with a low cough as he mumbled a yes, as you opened the door once he stopped in front of your apartment. 

That’s it, you were leaving, and his eyes didn’t leave you till you disappeared into the apartment. 

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, groaning as he banged his head into it, a low horn sound only frustrating him further. It was hard for him to drive after, the scene of you being so vulnerable yet glaring at him like a scared little vixen trying to look brave, replayed in his mind. 

No, he couldn’t drive, couldn’t focus on the road anymore, stopping the car at a random parking lot of a fast food chain, grabbing his phone to pull up Instagram, specifically Jaemin’s account. 

He didn’t have to scroll much to find the picture he was looking for—his teammate, Jaemin, standing right next to you with his arm resting on your waist. Jeno didn’t know why that picture left a bitter taste in his mouth all of a sudden, knowing well how badly Jaemin fucked up when he cheated on you. 

And now the asshole is running after you again. 

You didn’t deserve that, you deserve someone better—someone perfect like you. 

He went back, not having it in him to look at the picture again, instead, going to your account now. It looked professional, all your posts being highly calculative to make your feed look pleasing. Your highlights, however, had this one particular picture—a picture of you smiling without a care in the world, so raw, so genuine, so beautiful. 

Beautiful. 

Jeno thought you looked beautiful, and it made him angry. 

He was angry—because deep down, he desired to be the reason for your smile. 

Chapter 5: Pretty in pink, but my head’s in the dark. 

Jeno made you smile. 

You did know that laugh was contagious, however, you didn’t think you’d actually give in to Jeno’s sweet chuckles. 

Sleep didn’t come to you easy when the constant reminder of the study session poked the back of your mind, not to mention what happened in the library earlier, where you and Jeno almost kissed—

No. 

You shook your head. Such niche experiences never falter you, so why was this such a big deal? 

Another groan left your mouth, but alas, your body was relaxed enough to sleep so you woke up energetic the next day. It felt oddly friendly when you saw Jeno at the University, and he threw a two finger salute your way, you waved back before going your way. 

“You’re zoned out, again.” Karina, one of your classmates, pointed out and you sighed as she rambled about how you needed to let some guy in, quite literally, to blow off some steam, which you clearly weren’t doing, hence the stuck up energy. 

Being descriptive about it didn’t help either—yet another reminder of how Jeno’s body was pressed against yours this hour, yesterday. 

Heat crept up your neck, urging you to pack up and leave the room. It was hot, stuffy almost for you to do anything, which is why you found yourself studying at the empty seat of the University park. 

You had to face him again, of course, there was no escape to that, and as if the universe was testing you, the time passed by way too quickly for your liking and soon, you found yourself standing in front of the main door of Jeno’s place. 

Before you could even ring the bell, the door opened to a huffing Jeno, almost as if he ran downstairs, but how did he know—

“Hey,” he whispered, looking around. 

He didn’t wait for your reply, simply grabbing your wrist and dragging you inside, your skin burning at the unexpected touch, but you didn’t shake him off of you, only asking in a low tone, “what are you doing?” 

“Shh,” Jeno mumbled, as though he was trying to avoid someone, or rather, trying to hide you from someone. His efforts were futile, however, once he heard that stern voice of his mother booming through the walls of his mansion. 

Now you get why Jeno was in a hurry, the look on her face had a chill going down your spine. 

You felt Jeno stiffen alongside you, his hold on your wrist now tighter, uncontrollably so. 

“You must be the new tutor for Jeno,” she said, scrutinizing every bit of your existence, Jeno’s jaw clenched at her unwavering gaze. 

“Yes ma’am, It’s a pleasure meeting you,” you tried to say, only for her to cut you off. 

“Trust me, darling. There must be no pleasure in helping Jeno, but I do hope he learns a thing or two from you—you look like a smart young lady, hopefully, a positive influence on him.” 

You looked at her with your mouth open slightly, not believing the sight in front of you. No mother should look down on their children like that, ever. 

“Mrs. Jung, I hope we’re talking about the same Jeno because he is amazing at studies, he grasps concepts faster than I do, and then I believe I’m the one who’s learning from him right now!” You smiled, full of enthusiasm, feeling Jeno’s hand dropping down from your wrist. 

“In fact, I’ve never seen anyone play football so perfectly while also being so brilliantly academically smart, I firmly believe his grades will shock you this time. Now, if you’ll excuse us, it’s time for our tutoring session.”

You passed her a small smile, the shock clear on her face, before grabbing Jeno’s hand and taking him along with you—to his room. You didn’t look back, simply closing the door as you breathed out with a pissed expression. 

Jeno’s heart was beating fast, he wasn’t sure if he had words to speak at this moment, so staring at you was all he could do. 

You spoke for him. 

You defended him. 

No one’s ever done that, no one cared enough to understand, moreover, it didn’t help how you looked angrier than him at the situation. 

“W—Why?” Jeno couldn’t keep his voice in check, “you didn’t have to—say all that.”

That’s when you turned around, facing him. All your anger disappeared once you focused on his face, so vulnerable, so confused, so desperate to know your answer. 

“Jeno,” the gentleness in your voice only made him gulp and look down at the floor, “I hope you don’t believe a word she says, because that’s not true,” you spoke, inching closer. 

You were not one who was good at making people feel better, Jeno of all people at that, however, this gave you an insight of why Jeno is the way he is—closed off, hence the lack of words from your side, but you knew you had to say it. 

That’s the thing, we judge people too quickly, you always had snarky remarks for him, not knowing how deep they cut him. He looked shaken right now, traumatized, especially because you experienced a part of his life which he never wanted to share with anybody. 

“Jeno, you’re doing so well, you know that right?” You whispered, as genuine as possible, your fingers grabbing his own, which made him look up at you finally. 

He was shaken, not from his mother’s words—he was used to them—but from yours. 

“No one’s ever said that,” he spoke so silently, you almost missed it. You held his hand tight—being almost angrier than him while answering his mom back—he isn’t sure if he’ll ever be over that. 

Jeno didn’t realize his eyes were glistening. 

“What?” You breathed out. 

He gulped yet again, jaw clenched now as he struggled to get his words out, the floor being the most interesting thing to him, “defended me. No one’s done that.”

“I—is that why you hate Jaehyun? Because people only see him?” You asked, wincing at the question when you saw him stiffen again, a sharp pang in your chest once he brushed your hand off of his. 

“Don’t. Don’t fucking go there.”

“I didn’t mean—” 

“Oh I fucking know what you mean. Everyone sees him fuck—you see him, because he’s perfect, right? That’s what he is, perfect,” he seethed out, “you don’t know what it’s like—to live in someone’s shadow,” there was a flash of pain in his eyes. 

You stayed mum, letting him speak. 

“Every place, every room, every fucking person just sees him,” he muttered, “I need to better, but it’s never enough, because he already did it—Jaehyun did it better. You look at him the same way as others do, and me? The afterthought—the failure.”

Your heart broke a little, guilt settling in because unknowingly, you fueled the same anger and trauma for him. 

“Jeno,” you mumbled, “you’re not a failure.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m starting to,” you spoke, and he looked up, “and thank god you’re not Jaehyun,” you chuckled, fingers ghosting near his jaw, your touch featherlight, making him suck in a deep breath. 

“Why?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper, eyes hopeful, which scared him. 

“Because you’re real, you don’t fake your emotions. You don’t smile at somebody who you don’t care about, you get angry, messy, you let yourself be shown how you are,” you lip twitched slightly as you said so, your own heartbeat rose at the sentences you so easily uttered, “that’s what makes you a human, Jeno, a human who’s trying his best, which is what matters.”

He blinked. 

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t, simply leaning into your touch with his eyes closed. 

“You’re you, the stupid jock who’s not scared of anything, yeah?” You tried to make him smile, which helped as you saw his lips curving up. 

Midway through your sentences, you genuinely questioned yourself about why you even like Jaehyun, it was honestly just your mind playing games with you. 

“You scare me,” he muttered. 

“Why?”

“Because you say things so convincingly, it makes me wanna believe you.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Just—don’t say it when you don’t mean it.”

“I do,” you said in a breath, his eyes on yours now, more intense than ever, “I mean every word.”

He stared a little longer, staring at you unamused as if you’d laugh in his face right this second. You didn’t. 

“You’re serious,” he said, voice hoarse. 

You nodded softly. 

Jeno took a single step forward, the air around you so tight, it felt like a rubber band stretched to its max, on the verge of snapping back. 

You inhaled sharply once Jeno’s cold hand brushed the hair on your shoulder, grazing against your bare skin, moving up your nape. 

“Do you have any idea what you just said to me?” He murmured, eyes locked on yours, turning you around easily to pin you against the wall—something he liked to do, apparently. 

“Tell me,” you mumbled. 

If someone told you two days back that you’d be in Jeno’s room, calming him down before getting into a compromising position with him, you would have laughed in their faces. It was reality for you now, something that made you feel so unconventionally flustered. 

The way he brushed his thumb along your jaw, slow and deliberate, made you shiver, “you’re making me forget that i’m supposed to hate this—feeling anything.” 

You were hanging on the last bit of your sanity, drowning in Jeno’s scent, his nose brushing against your cheek, hand gripping your waist, heat radiating off of your body. 

“Jeno—”

“Say it again,” he whispered. 

“Say what?” You breathed. 

“That you’re glad I’m not him.”

You chuckled under his hold, your voice still shaking, “I’m so glad—so fucking glad you’re not him.” 

His breath sounded like a curse, lips hovering a breath above yours, you could feel his hesitation against your skin. He wasn’t sure if he had the right to touch someone as perfect as you, yet you didn’t stop him, the space in between you was so tight, it might as well elicit electricity. 

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, only leaning into his touch, resting your hand over the top of his on your jaw. The touch was faint, yet you could feel it everywhere. 

You held your breath as he leaned in—

Knock. 

Jeno swore under his breath as you flinched, it physically hurt him to step back. 

“Jeno?” Of course, it was Jaehyun who had to interrupt you two. 

Your hands trembled as Jeno moved to the door, and you quickly turned towards the desk, rushing to sit down, pretending that nothing had happened—that you didn’t almost kiss Jeno a few seconds back. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes furious with a hint of daze in them. “Yeah?” His voice came out strained as he asked Jaehyun through the door. 

“Mom wants to talk to you,” He said.

“Be right down,” he answered, shaking his head, staring at your way one last time, holding eye contact for a second, letting you see just how much he hated this situation, veins popping in his neck.

Then he opened the door, closing it behind him and disappearing from your eyesight. 

You stayed there, overwhelmed, lips tingling, pulse racing. 

A truth burned your skin in an excruciating pain. 

If he had kissed you, you wouldn’t have stopped him. 

Chapter 6: I can go from A to Z, but U is what I want. 

Jeno hadn’t texted you all night. 

Not that you waited, except, you did. 

He never came back to the room after Jaehyun called him out, you waited, till you couldn’t anymore and had to rush out before your mind drove you to the edge of insanity. 

So you grabbed your bag, rushing to the first place you thought of—the courtyard behind the Science block. It was calm, no student in sight, thankfully. 

Your five minutes of calm ended a second too quickly, a voice calling out your name in its full glory. You cursed the universe for treating you like this and you didn’t have to turn around to figure out who it was.

Jaemin. 

“I gotta admit, I didn’t peg you to fall for the broken type.” He stepped out smiling as insane as a villain who hasn’t moved on does. 

“Still stalking me?” You rolled your eyes, “get a fucking job.”

“I call it being invested,” he smirked, shoving hands in his pockets, “it’s honestly a downgrade, going from me to Jeno.”

“Not again,” you muttered, grabbing your book which you had just taken out. 

“I mean, trading me for Jeno?” Voice full of pity. 

“As if you were an option, Jaemin,” you turned sharply. 

That shut him up for half a second.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, voice colder now. “He’s always angry, I was angry, I made you feel something, can he say the same?”

Your head was hurting by now, as you mumbled yet another shut up, only to be stopped by Jaemin as he grabbed your arm. 

“What? He’s the angry, tortured type. You’re into hopeless projects now?”

“I’m into honesty,” you snapped, “something you don’t offer.”

“What does he have that I don’t?”

“Self awareness maybe,” a voice came from behind you, low, cold, almost lethal. 

Jeno was here. 

“Let go of her,” he said, dead-eyed, he was ready to snap. 

And Jaemin did, a scoff leaving his mouth before he smirked, “great, speak of the devil.”

Jeno raised his brow, “you done?”

Jaemin chuckled, “not even close.”

You sighed, “of course not,” this day couldn’t get worse. 

“You really think this is love or whatever?” He said, looking at Jeno but his words were directed to you instead, “he’s gonna burn you someday, and you’re gonna let him.” 

Oh god, you were not having any of this, why was this conversation even happening? It made absolutely no sense. 

Jeno moved faster this time, but you blocked his chest with your arms, “enough,” you said sharply. 

“Ask him to leave.” Jeno said, voice low. 

“Jaemin, just leave,” you said, turning to him. 

But he didn’t, and so Jeno did, shoving past you as you rolled your eyes, Jaemin’s sinister smile only widening, getting so close to him, he had to lean back slightly. 

“Don’t test me, and don’t come near her again, or else I won’t be this patient.” Jeno spoke. 

“Aw? You’re gonna hit me in front of her, Jeno?”

“I don’t need to, she already cut you deeper than I ever could.” 

Jaemin blinked, clenching his jaw, before turning to you, maintaining eye contact, “she’s not your girl, Jeno.”

“You don’t know that,” he gritted his teeth. 

“You’ll come back,” Jaemin’s jaw ticked as he said so. 

“Hold your breath until I do,” you replied.

That was it, he left. It wasn’t silent, nor dramatic, but with enough tension to let you know that he will be coming back. 

Once he was gone, you shoved Jeno, hard. 

“The fuck was that?”

“What? I came here trying to find you, only to witness you talking to him.”

“I didn’t want it to happen either, but the world hates me,” you mumbled, grabbing your bag and walking away with Jeno following you behind. 

“I fucking hate that he still gets to talk to you, why does he have access to you?” His voice rose and you prayed no one would hear him, thankfully this area was empty. 

“He doesn’t, and why do you even care?” You asked, with distress clear on your face, “pretending like I mean something to you in front of Jaemin is just as worse, Jeno.” 

“I—”

“No, you won’t even talk about last night, as if it didn’t happen,” you snapped and he froze, “you didn’t even come back to your room.”

His silence was your answer, and you knew this conversation wasn’t gonna go any further, Jeno couldn’t do that—he was scared of opening up, and he was scared of answering those questions, so even though you were hurting on the inside, you let him be. 

“Tomorrow, library, at five. Be on time.” You mumbled, leaving him behind you. 

“Fuck—fuck!” Jeno punched the wall next to him. He didn’t want you to go—the first person who ever tried to understand him, took his side, defended him. He was beyond scared of letting his guard down, so he groaned, sliding down the wall. 

“How do I even tell you I want you?”

Chapter 7: I stayed, even when it was easier to run.

The library was too quiet for how loud your mind was. The sound of your pen dragging across the paper felt almost intrusive as you tried to finish your assignment. 

It had been three nights since the library fiasco. 

Two nights since the almost kiss. 

One night since the blow up with Jaemin.

You almost didn’t wish to come here, yet here you were, with the sample test papers ready, clad in your little black skirt, a cardigan too loose for you, waiting for Jeno to show up—hoping he would. 

The clock ticked. He was a solid nineteen minutes late now, another minute and you’ll get up to leave. That’s when you heard the lazy footsteps approaching your side, the farthest corner of the library. You expected him to sit in front of you, yet he opted to sit right next to you, so close you could feel the fabric of his jeans brushing against your thigh. He took a seat without permission, like he had the right to be, like nothing had happened. 

He came in like guilt personified, shoulders hunched, hoodie loose, hair an unbrushed mess of indecision. And when he saw you?

He hesitated.

You didn’t look up, simply sliding him the sheet of questions to solve, the air around you turned weighted. His pen scratched, your leg bounced, you sipped water and he watched the corner of your mouth, practically burning holes into you. 

It was unbearable. 

This tension—it’s not a war but there’s rarely ever any peace. Catherine and Heathcliff reincarnated, except you weren’t on a moor, you were in a library, trying not to fall apart across the wooden study table. 

Just yesterday, he burned through Jaemin like jealousy was oxygen. 

He couldn’t stop staring, yet he solved the questions for forty minutes, sliding the sheet back to you for checking, expecting some sort of conversation now, anything, even a little hum of acknowledgement from your side, but none of it happened. 

He watched you scribble your pen over the margin, circling a few things, ticking the others, lip bitten in concentration. He observed you so intensely, how your eyes flicked across his answer sheet, but you didn’t look his way, not even once. 

“You won’t even talk to me now?” He asked, keeping his voice in check. 

“Four answers wrong, you did pretty well, can do better still,” you mumbled, passing him the paper. 

“Y/N,” he sighed, tired, he was afraid of this happening—letting you down, and that’s exactly what he did. Running away from his problems was what Jeno always did, he wasn’t perfect, he knows it, but he wants to try and be better, better for you. 

“You came late,” you said, still not looking up. 

“I didn’t sleep last night,” he exhaled, jaw clenched. 

“Not my problem,” you retorted. 

“I was thinking.”

“You should study instead.”

“You hate me now, huh?” Jeno leaned forward, voice flat. 

You blinked. The question hit out of nowhere.

“I don’t hate you,” you replied carefully. “But I don’t know how to deal with you either.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, Jeno. It’s the truth. And that’s more than you’ve been giving me.”

He looked at you then, really looked—eyes narrowed, jaw tight, like he was keeping a war behind his teeth. His eyes were empty, yet so full of you. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, quietly. “I don’t know how to be—good at this, with you.”

“And yet you’re good at disappearing. You’re good at leaving me hanging like none of it mattered.”

You weren’t yelling. You didn’t need to. Your disappointment was louder than any raised voice.

Jeno sat back in his chair, breathing shallow. “You kissed me back.”

Your throat tightened, “you didn’t kiss me at all.”

“Exactly,” he muttered. “Because I would’ve ruined it. Ruined you.”

You shook your head slowly. “No, Jeno. You didn’t kiss me because you’re scared of how much you want to.”

His hands balled into fists. “And you’re not?”

“We’re not talking about me.” You looked away. 

He scoffed, turning to look at you fully, leaning in with his hand now resting on your thigh, burning the skin with his touch. 

“You want honesty, huh? So here it is—I’ve been thinking about you, about everything that’s happened in the past few days, no one’s ever messed with my mind so much and it fucking scares me. You’re messing me up—”

You couldn’t hear more, not when he was so close, not when he poured his heart out to you. Nothing about you two was normal, even your heartbeat was synced with how abnormally high they were. 

“Shh,” you mumbled, covering his mouth with your palm, and even the rude gesture calmed him down—your touch calmed him down. 

“You have an exam tomorrow.” You said and he stared, “study, pass the exam, and we’ll talk, yeah?”

He blinked, almost as if you showed him mercy, and gave him a chance to do something, to prove that he’s worthy of being near you. His scholarship, football, future—everything was at stake, but did he care? No. He cared about not letting you down. He wanted to prove himself to you. 

“You—you promise?” He asked, gripping the extra sheets and notes you passed his way.

You nodded, eyes softer now. You didn’t wanna hurt Jeno, you could see just how hard he tried to fight with his demons, but this time, you wanted him to win.

“I’ll be waiting.” 

You turned to leave then, leaving Jeno with his thoughts as he watched you leave, eyes on your legs. He gulped, looking back to the paper to find a line scribbled in your handwriting. 

You already know the answer, you’re just afraid of getting it wrong. 

It wasn’t about the question, it was about him. 

He just wanted to be worthy enough to stand in front of you and say I didn’t fuck this up this time. So he started, he worked all night, solved as many sample problems as he could, everything felt like a punch in the gut but he couldn’t give up, not this time. 

Jeno couldn’t sleep at night, 

I’ll be waiting. 

That’s what you told him, and he was looking forward to it, because for the very first time in his life, someone wasn’t waiting for him to fail. 

He woke up before his alarm had the chance to ring, didn’t care about his mother’s remark on how he woke up on time for once, or how Jaehyun gave him a long, unreadable look. Jeno didn’t react, he had bigger problems to tackle today. 

You were just as restless as him if not more, checking your phone every few minutes as if you’d get any text from Jeno. He must be busy studying, you hope that was the case. 

He walked into the exam hall calm, focused, terrified. He didn’t skip questions. He didn’t zone out.

He solved the final problem two minutes before time and rechecked every line like his life was hidden in the margins.

When he walked out of that room, his shirt clinging to the back of his neck from sweat, his palms aching from gripping the pen too hard—he knew. He’d done it. Or at least, he hoped he did. 

Yet, he didn’t text you, he wouldn’t until he got the results. 

Chapter 8: Jealousy is but a red thread around my throat. 

You waited, not loud, but silently. 

Two whole days, you held your breath, even planned on visiting the football practice to just get a glimpse of Jeno, yet you couldn’t muster enough courage to do so. God, you were so affected by everything he did, and this felt so very suffocating, waiting on someone. You knew what you felt, there was no point in denying it, however, you couldn’t figure out how it happened, so quickly at that. 

Heck, even Jaemin was more present in your chat inbox, even though you never replied to him, it just made you wonder if your time with Jeno was just a hoax. 

Did you imagine it all? 

On the other hand, on the other side of the city, sitting in a dim room with sunlight pouring in, Jeno was drowning in darkness. 

The exam portal was open in front of him, he refreshed the page every two seconds, not being able to sit still. His hands were shaking, not from fear but from want.  From the feeling of your voice telling him that you’ll talk to him once he proves himself. 

He gave up the wait, the result wasn’t out the whole day. It was three in the morning when the notification woke him up like a jolt. 

Results were out. 

He rushed to check it, the numbers stunning him as his jaw hung open. 

83%

Not perfect. But more than enough.

Enough to pass. Enough to stay on the team.

Enough to say, Look. I did it. I’m not a fuck-up. The first thing he thought of was you. So he typed—just two words.

Jeno: I passed.

Because he didn’t know how to say what he really wanted to—I passed, and all I could think about was your voice. I passed, and I still don’t feel whole unless you tell me you’re proud. I passed, and it’s not enough if I can’t show you.

Your reply came back six minutes later.

You: I knew you would. 

It was soft, gentle. But was it enough for Jeno? No. It should’ve been enough, but it wasn’t. 

He didn’t reply, he didn’t text you again. He opted to skip the lectures for the day and stay in his room, blinds closed, only darkness consuming him. 

You knew it was hard for Jeno, you knew you shouldn’t wait for his reply or him approaching you—he was too scared to do that, which is exactly why you grabbed your bag and went to his place the first thing in the morning. Maybe Jeno needed time, but you had to check. 

You rang the bell, your heart pounding as you did so, expecting Jeno to open up and see you. Once the door opened, your pulse stuttered. 

Jaehyun. 

Of course, it had to be him. 

“Y/N,” he said your name smoothly, “didn’t know you were coming by.”

You hesitated with a small chuckle, exhaling the breath you were holding, “is Jeno home?” 

He nodded, stepping aside to let you in, “yeah, he’s in his room, didn’t come out this morning at all.”

“Oh,” you said softly, wondering if he was alright. 

There was a pause, an awkward silence after that, you felt heavy, wanting to go upstairs but you weren’t sure if you were allowed to. 

Jaehyun closed the door behind you. “He’s been off since the results,” he said, voice low. “I thought passing would help, but I don’t know. He kind of shut down again after telling us he passed.”

You gulped, chest tightened at the revelation. 

“I came to check up on him, I’m not sure if he wants to meet though.”

“He’d want to see you.” Jaehyun said, smiling sincerely, “you’re good for him.”

Your eyes widened at that, “I’m not sure he thinks that.” You tried to smile, “can I go to his room?”

“He locked the door, I think he’s sleeping,” Jaehyun said apologetically. 

“I don’t wanna bother him.” You smiled sadly, “those are good pictures,” you mumbled, looking at the wall full of frames, particularly the ones with Jeno in them.

“Yeah, I took most of those,” Jaehyun replied with another smile, he knew you wanted to talk to Jeno so he suggested something, “Maybe if you take him something to eat? I can give the breakfast he skipped—”

“Oh no, I can run to the bakery and get something—”

Then you noticed a movement in your peripheral vision, you turned around to find Jeno. He was standing down the hall, his fluffy hair a mess, eyes wide as if he didn’t expect you to be here—especially with Jaehyun. 

“Hey,” you breathed out. 

No reply. 

“Y—you didn’t reply, I came to see you,” you tried speaking again. 

However, his expression didn’t change and suddenly, you felt like you shouldn’t have come here at all. He was frozen even when you said you wanted to make sure he was okay. Then he came back to his senses, clearing his throat. 

Jaehyun left the room, letting you two be alone. 

“Why didn’t you ask for me?” He whispered, just sadness in his voice. 

“I did, that’s what I came for,” you tried to explain.

Jeno stared at you, he was so broken inside he couldn’t let himself believe it. You dressed up, all pretty, your eyes so soft, your lips turning into a pout of disappointment. You looked perfect, and you came here for Jeno? He just could not believe it. 

“You were talking to him,” Jeno said, referring to Jaehyun, his voice broken. 

“He opened the door, what can I do?” You shook your head, trying to explain, “you didn’t even text back, Jeno.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he replied, “I’ve never done this before. I’ve never had someone wait for me and mean it.”

Your lips parted to reply but he wasn’t done. 

“You said you’d talk to me after the exam,” he went on, voice sharper now, “but when you showed up, you let him open the door. You let him tell you how I was.”

“I didn’t—” your voice faltered, “I didn’t come for him.”

“Didn’t look that way.”

That hurt. You flinched. “Jeno, why are you doing this?” 

“Because I waited for you,” he snapped. “I sat in that room like a fucking idiot thinking you’d come to see me. Not make small talk with my brother or compliment his photography.”

“You heard that?” You froze, it wasn’t your intention to do any of that. 

“I heard everything, every second you spent without taking my name,” he said. 

Just like that—he hurt you. Every conversation was about Jeno, every single one. He just couldn’t see it. 

“I thought I was getting better,” he admitted, quieter now. “I thought passing the exam would mean something. That it would be enough.”

“It was,” you whispered. “Jeno, it is. I am proud of you.”

“Then why didn’t it feel like it?” His voice broke on that line. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a step away, then back, like his own body was a prison.

You stood frozen. Every word hit somewhere different.

“I wanted you to come,” he said, softer now. “Not to check in. Not to ask if I’d eaten. I wanted you to come for me. Just for me. You don’t get it, Y/N.”

“No,” you stepped forward. “You don’t get it. You think everything is about being chosen or abandoned. But not everyone’s trying to leave you, Jeno. Sometimes people show up. But you keep slamming the door in their face.”

He turned away. “Then go.”

“I came for you.” You said one last time, your eyes watering, not being able to contain the hurt you held in them. 

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have.”

That one landed like a punch.

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You nodded. Just once.

“Fine.”

You turned.

And you left.

And this time, he didn’t stop you.

Chapter 9: I know that I’m hard to read, but you got me here to stay 

You spent most of your morning crying alone in your student council room, but it just wasn’t enough, not when you were being wronged every second of the day, not when the person you wanted kept running away from you no matter how hard you tried. At least you did. 

You couldn’t run away though, you had an important meeting with your council at six in the evening, by that time, you had done everything to make yourself look normal again, but your mind was entirely elsewhere, in another realm, a realm where things were different. 

Jeno, on the other hand, left his room as soon as he realized how wrong everything had gone. All afternoon his own words replayed in his mind, how he asked you to leave and how you left a single tear drop on the floor before you turned around and left. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have.

It felt like biting into something rotten, saying that out loud to you. Like watching the one and the only thing he wanted turn and walk away. You didn’t yell back, you didn’t beg, you went still, and left. He saw you leave—he made you leave. 

And he let you go anyway. Because that’s what he did. Because pushing people away was easier than asking them to stay.

Until now.

Now he was pacing in his room like a caged animal, hoodie still damp, heart in his throat. He kept hearing your voice in the hallway. Kept seeing your face. Kept remembering the way you reached for him and he didn’t reach back.

His chest felt tight, his limbs tense. He couldn’t stay here, not in this house, not knowing you might never come back.

He had to find you.

So he ran. He ran to the courtyard, not caring about the rain pour, soaking him up from head to toe. You weren’t in the library, not in the council room, the classrooms were empty. He was panicking. 

That’s when he heard a voice, turning around the corner of the athletic department, he walked straight into one of his football teammates he couldn’t stand at all—Minjae, a loud-mouthed asshole, smiling like a madman. 

“Fucking hell, Lee Jeno, you look like shit.” He grinned. 

Jeno didn’t answer, he was in a hurry, he had to find you, to make things right with you, he was about to push past Minjae when—

“Oh, by the way,” he smirked, “Jaemin told us a lot about how you finally landed his ex, the pretty goody two shoes, Y/N.”

Jeno froze, jaw clenched at the mention of you and Jaemin in the same sentence, coming from an asshole at that. 

“Didn’t think you’d have a go at someone like her. She seems to like guys who have more brains than biceps.” He laughed at his own joke. 

“The fuck did you just say?” 

Minjae laughed. “Chill, man. I’m just saying—props to you, seriously. Girl like that? All polished and pretty and loyal? I mean, not that it’ll last. Girls like that don’t stay with guys like us. She’ll figure it out eventually.”

Jeno’s vision turned black.

“Say that again,” he said, voice like static.

Minjae raised his hands. “Relax. You don’t need to get all—”

The punch landed before he could finish.

Minjae hit the ground hard, water splashing up from the impact, the rain pouring down heavier now. He tried to shove Jeno back, but to no avail as he bent down, his fist colliding with Minjae’s jaw again.  

Jeno wasn’t fighting Minjae per se, he was fighting every single voice that told him he wasn’t enough, that he could never live up to his brother, that he could never be with someone as perfect as you. That’s what he believed too, till you actually became real for him. 

His mind was elsewhere when he took a blow to his jaw, lip bleeding now, Jeno stumbled but scoffed before punching him again, and again, till his knuckles were shredded, a throbbing in his jaw which almost felt like fire. 

It was only when someone pulled him off of Minjae, Jeno stopped, spitting out blood in the rain slick grass. Everything hurt, but not as much as his burning chest. 

“Are you insane?” Someone yelled his way, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jeno didn’t bother answering, pulling out his phone and rushing away, typing out texts to you. 

Jeno: where are you? please say something i’m so fucking sorry Y/N i didn’t mean it  i didn’t mean any of it i swear Y/N please 

No response. His messages were just there, unread, and unanswered. He simply didn’t know why. 

He didn’t know how you had been in the private meeting room for the past hour, student council prep being a whole scheduling disaster, handling arguments about clubs and their out-of-the-worldly budget demands. 

You were half awake at best, distracted by the storm that brewed outside. Your phone vibrates once, then again, and when you finally pull it out to check the numerous missed calls—your screen goes dark. Perfect, just on the day you didn’t bring your charger or powerbank. 

The feeling in your gut—it wasn’t good, which is why you excused yourself mid meeting, something you never do, to rush back home. You were soaked as you ran to your apartment, close to the University, thankfully. You plugged your phone in to charge as you rushed to take a shower, hoping the hot water would soothe your nerves. It didn’t. 

You kept thinking about Jeno, about the fight at his place earlier, how he asked you to leave with the saddest look in his eyes, and how badly it hurt you. You were out of the shower in fifteen minutes, toweling your hair with one hand and rushing to check your phone with the other, not expecting a myriad of notifications. 

17 Missed calls. 

6 Voicemails. 

26 Unread texts. 

The last of which made your blood run cold. 

Jeno: Y/N please  i’m outside 

You rushed to the front door, and he was there—leaning against the wall beside your entrance, hoodie clinging to him, hair wet and plastered to his forehead, eyes closed and him wincing like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. Like it hurts too much to exist. Hands bruised, lip split, and he opened his eyes—bloodshot, glassy. 

“Jeno,” you gasped out loud, “w—what happened?” You said, going close to him. 

“I tried to find you,” he said, voice wrecked, “I tried but I couldn’t, I thought that maybe you blocked me.”

“No—I was in a meeting and my phone died, god I’m so sorry—fuck, come inside.” You shook your head in distress.

“Y/N,” he groaned, and you gently helped him when he didn’t move, like he wasn’t allowed to, “I fucked up.”

“Shh, come inside, it’s cold,” you whispered and he nodded after a moment of hesitation. You tried to be calm, you tried to take control of the situation for once and he listened, this time he did when you took him to your room. 

You didn’t ask how this happened to him, only guiding him to the bathroom, “you’re soaked and bleeding, take a shower, i’ll put your clothes in the wash and dryer.”

He opened his mouth to say otherwise, but you didn’t let him, grabbing a fresh towel and handing it to him. 

“Are you sure you want me here?” He asked, vulnerable. 

“I wouldn’t have opened the door otherwise, Jeno, I do.”

He nodded, swallowing hard as he disappeared into the bathroom without another word and you worked your washing machine and dryer, sitting down right after, exhaling and letting your guard down, hands shaking with worry. 

You were glad Jeno was taking his sweet time inside, because you had no clue how to go on with this situation. Jeno stalling coming out simply because he was ashamed, also consumed in how good your shampoo smells. He was at your place, in your bathroom, all bloodied up, why? Because he couldn’t be normal for once and let you in. 

His walls came crashing down each time you came closer to him, but this time, he didn’t want them to go back up the second he touched you, this time, he wanted you inside with him. 

His clothes were dry very soon and you kept them in your room, waiting outside by the sofa, letting him come out all dressed up. The water stopped soon, the door creaking as he came out, and you were sitting on the sofa, hair still wet. 

Then Jeno opened the door, you stood up at the noise, and he looked your way in a silent plea to ask you if he could sit next to you, and you nodded. He held up the bloodied towel, “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and you smiled softly, taking it away from him. 

The silence was too loud after as you both sat next to each other, you waited for him to say something, waited for the reality of tonight to settle in—to make sense, to stop trembling beneath your skin. And then he spoke as you took out your medicine kit, gently grabbing his hand to take a look at his bruised knuckles. 

“Y/N,” he took your name as if it was the only thing he knew. 

He watched you kneel in front of him, your eyes not angry, just steady, quiet, and unbearably kind. His fingers trembled in yours, you gently pulled the sleeve back, pressing a warm damp cloth to the wounds, making him wince slightly at the contact. 

“Sorry,” you breathed out. 

“I deserve worse,” he breathed back. 

“No, you don’t,” you said, looking up at him. 

He laughed under his breath, “why are you so kind to me? I don’t deserve it, Y/N.”

“You don’t get to decide what I give you, Jeno,” you replied, “you’re bleeding, again.”

“Not my first time.”

You gripped him tighter, “and that’s supposed to make it better?”

“No,” he said, voice low, “just means I’m good at it by now.”

You didn’t answer. Just ripped the antiseptic packet open a little more forcefully than necessary and pressed it to the bruised line of his knuckles. He flinched.

“Good,” you muttered. “Means you still feel something.”

“God, Y/N—”

“No,” you snapped, trying your best to act normal but you both were far from that, “not yet.”

You cleaned the split in his skin with the kind of precision that only comes from anger—controlled, careful, but deeply furious.

“You don’t get to act like none of this mattered,” you said, eyes locked on his wounds. “You don’t get to disappear into your guilt and then show up bleeding and say I didn’t know where else to go. That’s not enough.”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t come for a reward.”

“Good,” you said coldly. “Because you’re not getting one.” You wrapped gauze around his hand slowly, tight enough that it would sting.

He didn’t pull away.

“I came because I thought I’d lose you,” he said through his teeth, “I came because I’m fucking terrified that I already did.”

“Who’s fault is that?” You said, standing up, “you keep doing this thing, you pull me in, let me see you and then the very second it gets real, you shut the door in my face.”

“I know,” he said. Loud. Frustrated. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see the way you look at me when I say the wrong thing? Like you’re trying so fucking hard not to walk away?”

“You told me to go!”

“I didn’t mean it!”

“Then don’t say it!” You shouted, “don’t look at me like I’m everything one second and then act like I mean nothing the next!”

“I didn’t think you’d stay.”

“I stayed!”

You were both breathing hard now. Staring at each other like you didn’t know whether to cry or kiss or throw something, You still stood in between Jeno’s legs, him looking up at you.  Jeno ran a hand through his damp hair, pacing a few feet before turning back to you, eyes wide and glassy.

“I ruin things,” he said, “I always have. I don’t know how to love something without fucking it up. But I wanted you anyway—I still do.”

Your throat tightened. “And I’m supposed to what? Carry all of that? Be your exception?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I just need you to see that I’m trying. Even if it’s ugly. Even if I’m bleeding and loud and afraid. I need you to see me, and stay anyway.”

You stared at him.

He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days. Someone who’d gone through hell and walked straight into another fire because you were at the center of it.

Your voice cracked, “you don’t make it easy.”

“I know.”

You looked down at your hands—his blood still faintly on your fingertips. He reached out slowly. You didn’t move. Not when his fingers curled around your wrist. Not when he pulled you in his lap, not when his forehead leaned into yours like he was holding on for dear life.

“I hate that I hurt you,” he whispered. “But I’d rather burn with you than freeze without you.”

“I wasn’t gonna leave, Jeno.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m sick,” he said suddenly. “Sick of being the one who’s always too much. Too angry. Too wrong. I get one thing right—one fucking exam—and even then I screw it up by throwing a punch at someone who talks shit about you and then picking a fight with the only person who’s ever actually looked at me like I could be more.”

Your breath hitched. You grabbed the gauze, wrapped it around his hand. Tighter than needed.

“Then be more, Jeno.”

He stared at you.

“Be more,” you repeated, “because I’m tired of being in love with someone who’s so determined to hate himself.”

That silenced him. Fully. Until he spoke again.

“You’re in love with me?”

The words dropped like a bomb between you.

You froze. Swallowed. Refused to take it back, chuckling to yourself at how easily you let go and told him that, “yeah—god help me, I am.”

Then you tried to move back, only his arms wrapped around your waist tighter, holding you in place, “you don’t get to say that and walk away.” He growled. 

“Who said I’m walking away?” You mumbled, holding onto his shoulder for support. 

It was unreal, how close you guys were but still not close enough, it was never enough. 

“You’re mad at me,” Jeno stated. 

“I should be mad.” 

“I’m mad too,” he added. 

“Good,” you rolled your eyes, trying to move again.

But he didn’t let you, not this time, his thumb brushing your cheek. 

That was it. That was when Jeno finally let go. He couldn’t delay this anymore, not again, not when you were right in front of him, not when your soft lips brushed so tenderly against his bruised ones, not when you told him you were in love with him—not when he knew he had to have you. 

He surged up and into you—hands gripping your face, mouth pressing against yours like it was the only way to breathe. It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t neat, it was everything you’d been holding back.

Lips slotted together, you could taste blood on your tongue from where he was hurt before, which only made you groan into the kiss, he was frustrated, so frustrated, not having it in him to let go for even a second. 

You gasped, arms flying up to clutch at his shoulders, pressed chest-to-chest, his body was warm—too warm—and you could feel his tension in every line.

You broke the kiss first, panting, eyes wide. “You shouldn’t—” you tried to say, especially when his body was hurting. 

“I have to,” he breathed, leaning in again. “Let me, just once. Please.”

You didn’t stop him, grabbing his nape and pulling him into you once again, because when Jeno kissed you again, it felt like pain, penance, and pleasure all in one. It was as if he was trying to earn your forgiveness with his mouth, trying to pour out everything he couldn’t say to you, groaning into your mouth when your hips shifted over his lap. 

“I fucking—” He said midway the kiss, “god I—”

You shushed him gently, “you don’t have to say it.”

“I love you,” he breathed out, forehead pressed against yours, eyes earnest and full of life for the first time since you saw him, “I don’t care if it’s too early, I can’t fucking not say it, I love you, I—”

Before he could ruin the moment with the spiral in his throat, before he could pull back in fear, you pressed your lips against his like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

He responded like he’d been starving. Mouth hot, desperate, hands gripping your waist like the world was falling apart and he only had seconds left to memorize you. The kiss was brutal in the way it made you feel, there was no choreography to it, no elegance—just lips, teeth, breath, and aching hunger.

His mouth was swollen. Your lips, bruised from how much he kissed you like he didn’t know how to stop.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed.

You stared at him. “I don’t want you to.”

Then you grabbed his jaw once you heard him wince, “does it hurt?” You asked, pecking his jaw, trailing kisses all over. 

“It’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt,” he whispered, letting your lips take over, tracing every bit of his face and neck, his eyes closing with the fire that you ignited within him. 

“This feels like a dream,” he whispered.

“It’s not.”

“But it could be,” he added, almost to himself. “You—like this, in my lap, in your apartment, touching me like I’m not a monster.”

You cupped his face again, guiding his eyes to yours, “you’re not a monster, Jeno.”

“You don’t know the things I’ve thought.”

“Then tell me.”

His voice cracked, “I thought I’d die if I didn’t see you again. I thought that maybe I’m already ruined and maybe I don’t deserve you but I can’t stop loving you anyway. I thought—”

You kissed him again. Slow this time. Deep and aching, “then stop thinking,” you whispered, “just be here—with me.”

His fingers trembled as they curled into the hem of your shirt.

“Can I?”

You nodded.

He pulled the fabric up carefully, reverently, and you helped him, raising your arms until it was off. His breath hitched. Not because of how you looked—but because he was looking at you like that.

Like something sacred.

You grabbed the back of his hoodie, tugging. He hesitated for a split second before pulling it over his head. The sight made your breath catch.

His torso was littered with bruises, some dark purple, some fading yellow. His ribcage dipped where the muscle was taut with tension. You reached out, fingertips grazing over a particularly harsh mark near his side.

He flinched. “That one’s from earlier.”

Your jaw clenched, “you shouldn’t fight because of me.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, “I was fighting every voice in my head that said I wasn’t worth your love.”

You kissed the bruise.

He gasped.

“I hate that they ever made you feel like that.”

His hands slid back up to your sides, lips brushing your jaw. “You make it go quiet.”

“I want to,” you whispered.

Your kisses grew slow again, heavier with emotion than desire. You could feel his heartbeat where your chest pressed into his, your hands in his hair, his head tilted just enough to deepen the kiss. You rolled your hips slightly in his lap, and he groaned again, burying his face in your neck.

“Fuck, Y/N—”

“Jeno,” you murmured, your nails dragging softly along his back, “look at me.”

He lifted his head. His eyes—wild, glassy, full of everything he couldn’t say.

“I love you,” you said again. “I’m not afraid of it. So don’t be either.”

He leaned forward, pressing your foreheads together. 

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You’re so fucking pretty, did I ever tell you that?” He mumbled against the skin of your neck, brushing his lips all over before placing open mouthed kisses over the expanse of your clavicle, “so fucking pretty.”

Jeno wasn’t gentle anymore, not when he’d been craving your presence, craving you. He couldn’t help but treat you like a reward, like he finally had won the only thing in life that actually mattered to him. 

He was quick to grab your waist and flip you over, getting on top of you on the couch that was too small for things he had planned in his mind. It was almost like a dam breaking the way his mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking, claiming you. 

“Jeno—” you mumbled, your back arching as you felt his body pressing into you, fingers wrapped around his wet locks as he marked your skin with every ounce of desperation he had, his fingers mapping out every inch of your body as if he’s afraid he’d forget it—as if he could ever forget anything about you. 

The warmth of his hands brushed over your bra clad nipples, a whimper leaving your mouth. Jeno wasn’t undressed yet you could feel him getting hard, and god you wondered just how big he was, grinding into you as if he was already inside your cunt. 

“I hurt you so fucking much,” Jeno mumbled, lips ghosting over your tit, “now I’ll hurt you in the way you want me to,” he said with dark eyes, yanking your bra down enough for your nipples to show, latching his mouth to you all in light speed. 

All his life Jeno couldn’t take control of anything, but seeing you shiver under him just made sense to Jeno, he had to take control—he had to make you feel so good, you wouldn’t ever look at anyone else. 

“You’re fucking crazy,” you whispered, already disheveled with how needy you were, wetness pooling in your panties, soiling the new pair you had put on not too long ago. 

“Yeah? You drive me crazy, baby,” he chuckled, and that sound went straight to your pussy. Jeno was hot, so fucking hot, but him using nicknames on you with his deep tone—only god knows how you would survive this. 

You bit your lip to conceal your moans, which only infuriated Jeno, biting your nipple harshly to make sure you scream, “don’t fucking hide your pretty voice,” he said. 

His hands went to your other breast and he gave it a tight squeeze, your eyes were on him as you watched his lips parting, letting his tongue make contact with the tip of your very hardened nub. He bites down on your nipple, making you cry out, but quickly soothes it with his tongue before switching to the other side, he wants to drive you wild with pleasure, to possess every inch of your body.

Lost in the haze of pleasure, you surrender yourself completely to Jeno’s possessive touches, letting him have his way with you. The room fills with the sounds of your moans and his desperate sucking, a symphony of carnal desire. In this moment, there is nothing but you and Jeno, and the burning hunger that consumes you both. 

Jeno’s hands roam across your body, his touch electric against your skin. He grabs your hips, pulling you flush against him as he claims your lips in yet another searing kiss, tongue delving into your mouth, hot and hungry, making you more hungry for his touch—for him. 

“I—can’t,” you whimpered, wanting more of him. 

Jeno chuckled, “can’t even speak now, hm? What happened to the feisty lil’ girl who couldn’t shut up?” 

“Fuck, shut up,” you mumbled, tugging on his hair harder, which only made him groan and squeeze your tits harder, coming up to brush his lips against yours, hot breaths intertwining as he smirks, hand travelling down your body, very close to the hem of your shorts. 

“Want me to shut up?” He asked, squeezing your neck with slight pressure, your mouth opening in a gasp—he took the opportunity to spit in your mouth, watching your eyes widen as watches you gulp it down, “good fucking girl,” he mumbles. 

You were too gone to function anymore and you had just started, but you knew one thing—whatever Jeno wanted, you’d let him do it to you. 

That man was no less than a Greek god with how sharp his features looked, especially in the dim light of the room, muscles flexing, abs on full display as he held himself up on top of you to press kisses all over. 

In a swift second, he pulled you up to unclasp your bra, throwing it away somewhere to continue pressing hot mouthed kisses down the valley of your breasts, and down your tummy, caressing it with the pad of his thumb, spending a good few seconds covering the expanse of your skin. 

You breathed harder once he reached the waistband of your shorts, his hooded eyes, almost drunk, looking up at you before he swiftly pulled them down, throwing them on the floor somewhere.

He couldn’t be gentle even if he tried, not when he was this thirsty, holding your legs open as he settled in the limited space that the couch held for him. Madman—that’s what he was and you couldn’t help but moan when he got closer to your panty clad cunt, burying his nose in the wet fabric, sniffing the scent of your arousal, groaning as he locked your thighs under his arms, which flexed harder now. 

You moaned his name as if a broken record repeating the same thing over and over again and he only mumbled things you couldn’t hear in your cunt, licking the already wet cloth, biting his lip at the first taste of you, “fuck—you’re so fucking perfect,” he says licking you harder, kissing your inner thighs alongside, leaving bites all over—he was feral. 

He slid your panties to the side, and the sight he had in front of him drove him to the edge. Jeno was an impatient man, yes, he was messy, he was not the softest, but seeing you like this just made him realize how much crazier he could be. 

That first taste emboldens him and he dives in like a man starved, lapping at your folds like he’s trying to consume you entirely. 

His desperate tongue delves deep inside, fucking you with rapid strokes and curling to hit your sweet spot. You cry out sharply at the intense sensation, fingers tangling in his tousled raven hair to hold him in place. He grips your thighs tightly, holding you down and open for his onslaught as he devours you. 

Jeno zeroes in on your clit, flicking and circling the sensitive bundle of nerves rapidly. Your back arches off the couch as he suckles hard on the throbbing bud, two fingers pumping inside your clenching hole.

“Fuck—Jeno, I’m gonna cum!” You wail, thighs trembling violently around his head as your climax approaches rapidly. He doubles his efforts, fucking you harder with his fingers and lashing your clit mercilessly with his tongue.

He curls his fingers to stroke your G-spot with every thrust, drawing out more of your copious arousal to lap up greedily. Your walls start to flutter and clench around him as the pressure builds unbearably.

 Jeno chuckled, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. “You like that, baby?” He practically purred, before sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. 

“Fuck—yes,” you gasped, your head falling back against the couch. Jeno was relentless, his tongue exploring every inch of you, driving you closer and closer to the edge. 

“Don’t stop,” you pleaded, your thighs trembling as you stared at the ceiling with your mouth open, desperate for air. 

Jeno pulled back for a moment, looking up at you with a wicked grin, “you want more, kitten?” He teased, running a finger along your slit, “go on then, beg for it.”

You groaned in frustration, but you were too far gone to care, “please, Jeno,” you begged, fueling his ego. 

“Shhh, be a good lil’ kitten for me, yeah?” He mumbled into your core mindlessly, sending shivers up your spine as your thighs shake. He didn’t stop, but just when your ecstasy was about to crash—

He stopped. 

You let out a frustrated groan and Jeno only got up with the essence of you sprawled over his chin, his hard on begging to be freed. 

“Fuck?” You asked, trying to get up on your elbows, looking at him incredulously. 

He only gave you a once over, tongue poking his cheek from inside before he came closer, swooping you up in his arms easily as you yelped, eyes wide as he carried you to the bedroom, “no patience, huh?” He asked. 

He was proud of himself for making you this weak, for cracking your high wall down so he could see you, so he could ruin you. Jeno was possessive, especially after knowing what you and Jaemin went through, he wanted you to have the best, and he was willing to be the best for you. 

“I—I was gonna cum!” You said, holding on to him for support.

“Did I say you could?” He replied smoothly. 

“What—Jeno what the fuck?” You whined and he only chuckled.

“Be patient, love, or else you won’t be coming all fucking night, yeah?” He said as he let you get down on the bed. 

You looked so innocent, eyes watery, hair messy, looking up at him like an angry little kitten trying to look tough. He climbed the bed and you moved back, till your back hit the headboard and he hovered above you, caressing your cheek as he cupped your jaw, tilting your head up to look him in his eye. Your heartbeat speeding up yet again, and good lord you loved being manhandled by Jeno. 

“What are you thinking?” He asked, thumb pushing on your lower lip. 

“Nothing.” You mumbled. 

He leaned in closer, “not thinking of my cock inside your pretty little cunt, hm?” He asks, watching you shiver at the thought, “by the time I'm done with you, you’ll be begging me to let you cum.”

Your jaw clenched as you slide your hand up Jeno’s torso, tracing all the way from his abs to his neck, his own body reacting to your touch, cock twitching inside his pants by the time your hand rested on his nape, pulling him even closer so your noses were touching. 

“You know, Jeno, you talk big game. Don’t make promises you can’t back up,” you mumbled to rile him up. 

Jeno’s eyes flashed with a mixture of lust and irritation at your challenge, “oh, you’re going to regret those words,” he whispered, his hands gripping your hips possessively. “I’m going to make you beg for my cock, baby.”

He punctuated his statement with a sharp thrust of his fingers, two of them plunging deep into your sopping wet pussy. You gasped, your back arching off the bed as he worked them in and out, stroking along your sensitive walls.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he panted, his thumb rubbing firm circles on your clit. “I can’t wait to feel this perfect little cunt wrapped around my cock.”

You moaned, your hips rolling to meet his hand as he fucked you with his fingers. “Then stop talking and do something about it,” you shot back, your voice breathy with desire.

Jeno chuckled darkly, withdrawing his fingers only to bring them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, his eyes never leaving yours as he savored your taste. “Mmh—delicious,” he purred, “but I’m not done playing with you yet.”

Before you could protest, he was pushing your thighs apart and settling between them. His tongue delved into your folds, lapping at your arousal like a man starved. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair as he devoured your pussy with single-minded intensity.

He worked you over mercilessly, his tongue and lips and teeth finding all the right spots to drive you wild. You bucked against his face, your thighs trembling as the pleasure built inside you. Just when you thought you might burst, Jeno would back off, leaving you desperate and aching for release.

“Jeno, please,” you whimpered, tugging on his hair in a futile attempt to guide him back to where you needed him most, “I need to cum. Please let me cum.”

He lifted his head, his chin glistening as he looked up at you. “Not yet,” he shook his head, his fingers continuing their maddeningly slow circles on your clit, “I want to hear you scream first.”

“I fucking can’t!” You breathed out, trying to control your moans again, “someone’s gonna hear and—ah—complain about it,” you said, which only made him scoff. 

“Is that it, hm? Have it your way then, princess,” he mumbled, yanking your soiled panties down all the way, balling it up in his first to make a gag out of it and shoving it down your mouth, “now you can scream all your want, Y/N.” He said, taking your name in his deep voice. 

And if you weren’t crazy before, now you had reached your limit of madness, even a poke from his side was like a pleasant burning wound to your skin, his actions also made you realize just how hungry Jeno was for being the one in control. 

You squirmed beneath Jeno, feeling utterly at his mercy as he continued his torturous teasing. The gag in your mouth muffled your moans but couldn’t silence them completely, much to Jeno’s enjoyment. Your body arched, yearning for more, desperate for release.

“Such a needy lil’ thing, aren’t you?” Jeno growled, his fingers still circling your sensitive bud, “I can feel how wet you are, taste how wet you are, dripping for me, hm?”

His words made you clench, fresh arousal coating his fingers. He gathered some of your slickness and slowly dragged it up to your throbbing clit, applying just the right amount of pressure. Your hips bucked up in hopes of seeking more contact.

“Hm—so responsive,” Jeno purred, looking pleased with himself, “I could do this all night—keep you on the edge, begging so desperately for me.”

“Please—” you tried to say around the gag, your eyes pleading, you were so close, teetering on the brink of an explosive climax. Just a little more.

But Jeno seemed determined to deny you that satisfaction, easing off right as you were about to fall over into your state of euphoria, frustration bubbled up inside you, mingling with the overwhelming lust coursing through your veins.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, baby,” Jeno taunted, nipping at your inner thigh, “I want to hear you scream my name—let everyone know who you belong to.”

His fingers circled, feather-light touches that drove you wild with need. You thrashed beneath him, incoherent noises of desperation spilling from your lips. Jeno just chuckled darkly, clearly enjoying your plight, removing your gag to hear you gasp loudly, his name on the tip of your tongue. 

Jeno was cruel, so cruel the way he denied your orgasm yet again with a smirk playing on his face, a whole one eighty from how he was an hour back and you were crying by now, something he seemed to enjoy too as he licked your face, tasting the salty teardrop you let out, “this makes me wanna ruin you more, y’know?” 

“Fuck—Jeno, let me cum please,” you sobbed as he took you in his arms. 

“You wanna cum, hm?” He asked as you settled on his lap, his hard on pressing against your thigh as you nodded, “fuck, you look so pretty crying like that for me, like a doll, a doll for me to use, hm?”

You couldn’t take it anymore, getting off and undoing his pant buttons as he watched you with amusement how you struggled to take off his pants and boxers, only to find his cock waiting for you, hard and proud. 

Jeno’s cock was throbbing, hard and ready to burst, as you took him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around his tip in a teasing manner. You could taste the salty beads of precum leaking from his slit, the flavor sending a jolt of desire straight to your core.

“Fuck—baby,” Jeno groaned, his fingers threading through your hair as you bobbed your head, taking him deeper into your throat. “Your mouth feels so good. Keep going just like that, good girl.”

You moaned around his length, the vibrations making him shudder. Your own arousal was dripping down your thighs, coating them with your slick essence. The wet sounds of your slurping filled the room, mingling with Jeno’s heavy breaths and grunts of pleasure.

“Shit—fuck, take it easy, I won’t be able to hold back," he panted, his grip on your hair tightening, “I’m gonna fucking come down your throat if you keep sucking me like that.”

You redoubled your efforts, eager to taste his release. Your tongue flattened against the underside of his shaft as you sucked harder, determined to milk him of every last drop. Just as you felt him start to swell, signaling his impending orgasm, you pulled away with a pop.

Jeno’s eyes jolted open, a mix of confusion and frustration flashing across his face. “What the fuck, baby? Why the fuck did you stop?”

You just smiled coyly up at him, licking your lips. “Because I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you fill me up with your hot cum, or are you too much of a coward to fuck me?” You teased, your grin making him scoff. 

God he loved you. 

Jeno growled, a predatory gleam in his eyes. In a flash, he grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your side, your back pressed firmly against his torso. 

Before you could even process the sudden change in position, he was lined up at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging your slick folds.

“Teasing me will only get you punished,” he warned, his voice low and husky with desire. “I’m going to fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to walk straight for a week.”

With that promise, he slammed into you, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust. You cried out at the sudden intrusion, your back arching as he filled you completely. Jeno set a brutal pace, pounding into you with wild abandon.

You let out a sharp cry as Jeno’s thick cock stretched you open, filling you so deeply that you could feel him bulging through your lower abdomen. The feeling of his hard length pulsing inside you sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, making you arch your back and press your ass against him.

“Lord—ah yes,” you gasped, grinding against him, “you’re—so fucking big.”

Jeno grunted in response, his fingers digging into your hips as he continued to pound into you at a furious pace. The sounds of skin slapping against skin and your needy moans filled the room, mixing with the creaking of the bed frame beneath you.

“Shit, your cunt is so tight,” Jeno mumbled, his breath hot against your neck. “Squeezing my cock like a desperate doll—you were made for me, baby. Made to take my dick and milk me dry.”

His filthy words only heightened your arousal, making you clench even tighter around him. You could feel your orgasm building again, the tension coiling in your core as he hit that special spot deep inside you with each thrust.

“Please don’t stop, not this time,” you pleaded, your nails digging into his thighs. “Fuck me harder, Jeno. I’m so fucking close.”

He was quick to flip you over again so you were resting on your back, his hips settling in between you as he held your thighs up, your legs resting on both his shoulders with ease as he snapped into you harder, plunging his cock with more need, as if he was a monster hungry for lust and only lust.

Jeno snarled, his hips snapping forward with a newfound vigor. One hand moved around to rub firm circles around your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Your body began to tremble, your breath coming out in short gasps as you found yourself on the brink of ecstasy.

“Cum for me,” Jeno demanded, pinching your clit hard, “I want to feel you cum all over my dick, baby.”

With a scream of his name, you practically exploded, your pussy clamping down around him like a vice as your orgasm crashed over you. Your body convulsed, your back bowing as wave after wave of intense pleasure washed through you, which shocked Jeno because you weren’t just having an orgasm. 

You were squirting all over his cock. 

Jeno followed shortly after, his cock pulsing as he spilled his release deep inside you, as he breathed hard, watching you with surprised eyes.

“Fuck,” he groaned, grinding against you to prolong your shared climax, “you’re so fucking hot, so fucking mine.”

You whimpered at the feeling of his hot cum painting your walls, the sensation making your pussy flutter around his shaft. Jeno held you close as you both rode out the aftershocks, his softening cock still buried inside you.

“You’re mine,” he mumbled, “say it.”

“Yours—I’m yours,” you breathed as best as you could. 

“Again.”

“I’m yours, Jeno.”

“Fuck—again.”

“So so fucking yours, I’m all yours Jeno.”

“Mine,” he whispered, so possessive. 

After a few moments, Jeno carefully pulled out and rolled you onto your back. He pressed gentle kisses along your jawline and down your neck, his touch soothing and tender in contrast to the rough passion from moments before.

“That was intense,” he murmured, nuzzling against your collarbone, “I don’t think i’ll ever get enough of you, baby. You’re fucking addictive.”

You smiled up at him, reaching up to cup his face. "I could say the same about you. The way you fuck me, it’s like you’re a fucking beast.”

“Was I too harsh?” He asked, placing soft kisses all over, “I’m sorry I just lost control—you have no idea how badly I need you, I don’t think I can stop,” he confessed. 

You kissed him again, “then don’t stop, just don’t.”

That’s all he needed to hear for the night, that you were finally his, and he was yours. He smirked, the night was just getting started. 

Chapter 10: Hate me less? You love me more. 

You don’t remember how the night ended, not when Jeno kept his promise of how you wouldn’t be able to walk anymore once he was done with you, and he was precise about it. He was far from done when he made you fall apart on his cock so many times, you lost count. 

It was a crazy switch up once you both were done, he took care of you, almost like he was made for it, helping you clean up in little bathtub which was definitely too small to fit the both of you, yet he helped you bath, a faint blush on his face as you laughed once he tried to act sly, touching you again when you were so sensitive and overstimulated. 

Turns out, Jeno can be super clingy when he has to be, also not letting you go once you get out of the tub, helping you dry your hair, helping you moisturize your body, helping you smile by kissing you every few seconds. 

He held you to sleep, not before hearing you say you actually want him and it’s not a dream. Jeno doesn’t remember if he ever felt this way before, this warmth called happiness that you provided him so easily. 

“I love you,” he mumbled to your sleeping figure, he was whipped, already thinking of your future together. Yeah, maybe it all happened too quickly, he still wouldn’t have it any other way. He wouldn’t mind getting through all the hurt again if it meant that he’d wake up to you sleeping next to him—to you loving him. 

It was perhaps the best day of Jeno’s life. 

The air felt different today.

Not because of the weather, which was finally warm and breezy after days of storm and stress, but because Jeno was walking beside you—not behind, not ahead—beside you. His fingers were laced with yours, his thumb brushing over your skin every few steps like he was still checking if this was real, he still couldn’t believe it. 

It was.

You passed the main quad slowly, in no rush. The two of you didn’t need to say much. Conversations dimmed as you walked through. You could feel the glances, the whispers.

Someone definitely said your name. Then his.

And then, clear as day, they whispered. 

“Wait—are they actually holding hands?”

Jeno didn’t flinch.

Not like he would’ve, weeks ago. Not like the boy who couldn’t stand being seen, being known. Instead, he just grabbed your hand a little tighter—casual, sure, and completely unbothered. His expression said it all—Yeah, and?

You chuckled. “Think they’re combusting?”

“Oh, definitely,” he said, tugging you closer with a smugness he barely bothered to hide anymore. “Especially that one girl who’s walking with me, who swore she’d never even look at me.”

“She wasn’t entirely wrong,” you teased. “You were kind of a menace.”

He groaned, tossing his head back, “were?”

You laughed, and it made him smile, soft and full, the kind of smile he used to hide and now gave you freely.

“You’re doing that look again,” he said, side-eyeing you. “Like you’re psychoanalyzing me.”

“Maybe I am. Can’t help it. You’re a walking dissertation, y’know?”

“Yeah? What’s the title?”

You looked up at him with a shrug. “How to fall for someone you’re supposed to hate.”

That made him stop walking.

You blinked, startled, but he was already turning to face you, his hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to show the fading bruises on his knuckles—old reminders of the version of him you never gave up on.

“I’m glad you did,” he said. “Fall for me. Even when I made it so damn hard.”

You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that made his breath catch. “You still do.”

“Yeah, well,” he squeezed your hand, “at least I’m hot.”

You were too busy rolling your eyes to realize you’d just walked past Jaemin and his friends until the entire bench went awkwardly quiet. Jaemin looked up, eyes flicking from your joined hands to your face, and then to Jeno—who didn’t even spare him a glance.

He was too focused on you. Too content stealing a bite of your ice cream like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Let’s go,” you muttered, trying not to laugh as you nudged him forward.

Jeno followed. No hesitation.

Because this, the hand holding, the quiet teasing, the stares that didn’t matter anymore, this was normal.

And for the first time in his life, Jeno finally understood: Normal didn’t mean boring.

It meant chosen. It meant enough.

It meant being yours.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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[galaxymagitech]

Ways I have written/would write different Bats out of my fics because they’d be a liability to the plot:

Bruce

He’s on a Justice League mission in space

He’s undercover as Matches Malone and Cannot Be Contacted

He decided he’s a Loner and Doesn’t Need Family again

No one’s willing to open a comm channel to him because he’s currently on a mission with Selina

Barbara

She’s busy leading the Birds of Prey

She has the flu and you will bother her under penalty of death

Her father is in the hospital and she won’t leave his bedside

She refuses to get involved in Batfamily-Typical Emotional Repression

She’s currently elbow-deep in some government’s computer system, so no distractions allowed

Dick

He’s in Bludhaven and busy

He’s on a Titans mission in space

He’s fighting with Bruce and won’t return to Gotham for anything less than an emergency

He’s having his yearly mental breakdown, leave him alone

Cass

She’s in Hong Kong

She is off visiting or training with Lady Shiva

She’s on important Birds of Prey business

She’s hanging out with Barbara and/or Steph so you can’t bother her for anything short of an emergency

Jason

He’s away with the Outlaws

He refuses to be involved in anything

He’s currently a villain

He’s dead again for unexplained reasons, but don’t worry, he’ll be fine

Steph

People are still mad at her for faking her death and won’t contact her

She’s spending time with her mom, who is miraculously off work at this specific time

The other characters literally forgot she existed (it’s meta, okay?)

It’s midterm season at GothamU

Tim

He’s with the Teen Titans in space/California

He’s with Young Justice in space

His Dad wants to take him to a baseball game

He had a paranoid episode and went off the grid

Duke

He’s with his parents at the hospital

He’s living with his mom or his cousin so he’s not around

He’s sleeping because he’s on day shift

He’s hanging out/completing important work with We Are Robin

Damian

I’ve set things earlier in the timeline solely so that he’s still at the League of Assassins. Sorry Dami.

He’s at school

He’s off visiting Jon Kent and his family wants him to have a normal childhood so they won’t bother him

He’s on a mission with the Teen Titans

Kate

She’s too busy for this BS

It’s Rosh HaShanah or some other holiday that I spent 20 minutes researching calendar coincidences to confirm fell on that day of the week within the correct year

She’s on a date and if you bother her you’re homophobic

Alfred

He’s on vacation in England

He’s dead

And worst comes to worst, I can just give them broken ribs or a sprained ankle.

[mariasont]

PRIORITIES & PRETTY THINGS - A.H

your beauty routine is sacred, but so is aaron's favorite way to decompress. looks like tonight you'll have to manage both

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, smutty smut, kinda free use policy, hotch using u for stress relief, p in v, twinkie (boycotting the name creampie), alexa play CPR by cupcake, AFAB, fem!reader, praise, dirty talk, aftercare, maybe a little breeding kink? talk about kids for like a singular line at the end, also mention of their first kiss which can be read here but not necessary to understand wc: 2.9k

Your love affair with beauty did not have the glamorous, instantaneous sparkle like most people choose to assume. In truth, it began behind a bedroom door barricaded tight against preteen anxieties, something that was constructed by braces flashing in garish shades of bubblegum pink and galaxy purple and bangs unevenly chopped by an overly eager parent.

Yet, somehow, fumbling with frosty blue eyeshadow and watermelon-scented gloss taught you self-expression, how to build confidence from the ground up.

Puberty decided to throw you a bone eventually (thank god), but by then makeup had embedded itself as more than something done for vanity. You would consider it a soul-mate level connection nurtured through midnight eyeliner tutorials, endless afternoons reading magazine spreads, and racking up Sephora points that probably rivaled some small countries economies.

Aaron loves giving you endless grief about your overflowing vanity drawers. Overflowing being his word choice, by the way, not yours. He loves grumbling about the avalanche of cosmetic boxes spilling from your shared closet, loves sighing (dramatically) each time another package lands on your doorstep.

Your face looks perfect without this, he insists regularly, always cupping your cheeks so you’re forced to meet those sincere eyes of his. 

But he overplays his hand — all gooey-soft affection pulsing through his pupils, twitch tugging his mouth upward.

He would never actually begrudge something that makes you so shamelessly happy, even if your spending habits are probably sending him toward an emotional breakdown. Therapy’s overdue anyway, in your opinion.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, brings out Aaron’s inner drama king quite like watching you spend approximately a million years applying the very products he loves to call a sparkly money pit.

You’re wrist-deep in said sparkly money pit when Aaron materializes behind you. Not that it fazes you. Your boyfriend-detecting instincts are now advanced to border on psychic talent (and way hotter than being able to predict lottery numbers).

“Hi, handsome,” you greet, flicking your eyes up briefly to gift him your best flirty, mirror-reflected smile. 

You hope he’s sufficiently distracted by your lips to overlook the fact that you’re still nowhere near ready. And true to form, Aaron’s eyes drop obediently.

His fixation on your mouth is practically Pavlovian by now, something you first discovered when he walked headlong into a door frame mid-argument simply because you had pulled your lower lip through your teeth to avoid saying something that might’ve gotten you bent over his knee.

Needless to say, the fight was quickly forgotten, replaced by a much more enjoyable, hands-on type of interaction.

“Honey.”

You recognize that tone instantly, hearing it countless times before. It’s his signature prelude, a gentle warning shot before he points out the obvious — that Spencer and his girlfriend are undoubtedly sitting at your reserved table right now, politely studying menus, patiently pretending to understand your stylish definition of on time.

And then, right on cue, will come the entirely fair (but completely predictable) mention of your solemn promise to be ready to go the nanosecond his work call ended.

“Nearly ready, cross my heart. Just two more seconds. Okay, maybe three. But four tops. Five, like, absolutely worst-case scenario.”

Aaron’s fingertips skate possessively along your waist, slipping beneath your robe to reclaim their preferred real estate.

“I’m not particularly worried about being on time right now,” he murmurs into the shallow dip at your neck, nose nudging the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Your mascara wand skips slightly, completely giving you away. Not that Aaron’s much better at hiding it, his poker face vanishes at moments like this, evident both in the rigid slope of his shoulders and (oh, hello there!) in the very prominent, enthusiastic proof making itself known against your ass.

“Yeah,” you giggle, bumping your hips back against him for emphasis. “I can feel how not worried you are.”

You struggle to fathom how he managed stress before you. Occasionally, you entertain yourself by picturing it — Aaron Hotchner being told to inhale deeply through a mindfulness app? Or earnestly attempting downward dog stretches in your living room? (You’d pay good money to see that.) Or perhaps he’d stress bake, an apron hugging his waist, forehead creased in the cutest serious-face as he glares suspiciously at measuring cups.

Each scenario gets progressively more funny and less believable.

Once, in those deceptively ‘innocent’ days before your relationship became official, you suggested Aaron adopt a new workout regime to help loosen that chronic, tightly wound demeanor of his. Admittedly, you were implying something a lot less treadmill-focused and considerably more… horizontal.

He diplomatically chose to ignore your entirely transparent proposition. Outwardly, anyway. 

What neither of you anticipated, however, was just how accurate your advice would prove. Because nothing drains Aaron’s tension faster than having you trapped beneath him, diligently working out every ounce of strain against your eagerly receptive body.

Which is precisely why, employing your best bedroom voice, you once generously offered Aaron permanent, round-the-clock access to you anytime the mood might arise. No rules, no red tape. Just full, unrestricted access to you.

In hindsight, you should have anticipated the lengthy, serious discussion that ensued after.

Your easy-going, no rules proposition quickly evolved into an impressively comprehensive negotiation, complete with detailed guidelines and exhaustive clarifications.

His eyebrows had knitted together with that intensity of his, repeatedly insisting that you were always in complete control, and then thoroughly checking — then double-checking, then triple-checking — that your consent was crystal clear, until your cheeks burned hot from the combination of embarrassment and sheer excitement. 

Emphasis on excitement.

Knowing him though, you weren’t necessarily too hopeful that he would actually take you up on your offer.

But when he did, it happened so fast, your brain hardly registered the transition from scrubbing dishes to being perched on the countertop, skirt punches around your waist and legs spread.

He’d walked in fresh from a meeting with Strauss, appearing completely unruffled except for the thunderclouds brewing darkly behind his eyes.

Without even a hint of warning, he had hoisted you up onto the island, plunging into you with such sudden decisiveness that all you managed was a surprised little squeak, fingers digging into his shoulders as he split you open in demanding strokes.

Afterward, he casually tucked himself away, tidying his clothes as if straightening his tie after an entirely routine briefing.

He leaned back against the countertop — yes, the one that had been slicked with both your juices — and resumed your unfinished dishes, nonchalantly asking, “Did you do anything interesting today?” like nothing had happened.

Your cheeks run hot at the memory.

“You do realize Spencer will totally freak if we’re late, right?”

“Then you’d better keep working on that makeup,” he murmurs, sliding his hands lower, “and I’ll handle my own priorities.”

Aaron never bothers fully stripping down when taking advantage of this arrangement. And you know that some part of you should be frustrated at that. It should promote at least some token complaint about fairness or reciprocity or whatever.

But instead, the sight of him, belt hitting to floor with a decisive thunk, pants unfastened just enough to take what he wants, well, it melts any kind of objection from your head, leaving only knees feeling more akin to jelly.

You barely suppress a shuddering breath as his cock springs free, hot and demanding against your thigh, marking your skin with a tacky trail of precum.

You attempt to steady your hand, refocusing on your left eye, guiding the wand in patient strokes from base to tip, each swipe sculpting them into perfectly fanned-out strands.

Aaron, however, is far less concerned with patience or perfection. His fingers hook into your robe, tugging it upward to reveal your hips and ass in one movement.

Goosebumps burst along your freshly moisturized skin at the exposure, and even so, you swear the air feels about ten degrees warmer. His right palm flattens between your shoulder blades, tipping you forward, presenting your body like an inviting dessert for ravenous eyes.

He positions himself between your folds, the thick tip of his cock flirting at your entrance before gliding over your puffy clit in sluggish, repeated motions. Your lips fall open on a soft, breathy gasp, eyes blinking dazedly around the blackened spoolie.

A very distant (and honestly not very reliable) part of your brain registers mild surprise at how soaked you’ve gotten. Which is stupid because you should really should expect it by now.

Being with Aaron has transformed you into a creature constantly on the edge, trembling in anticipation, your senses warped in a constant, intoxicating fog of lust.

Living together had only exacerbated that lust a thousandfold. You were constantly surrounded by his addictive pheromones, wrapped nightly in sheets saturated with his heat, body trained to climb him on any remotely available surface — the couch, the corner of his desk, the shower, the bed (obviously), and even once, tipsily, sprawled across the living room floor after a bottle of wine dissolved all remaining inhibitions.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Aaron whispers, dragging his head at your now sopping opening. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your pretty face before dinner.”

“Awh, baby, you know I look even better when I’m —” The retort snaps into a choked-off whine as he pushes into your cunt with one fluid thrust. 

Your wrist spasms without permission, sending the mascara wand skidding haphazardly across your eyelid and streaking your cheek in sloppy black lines. Your pelvis crashes clumsily into the countertop’s hard edge, a sharp little reminder that maybe multitasking is apparently not your strong suit.

Aaron’s fingers card through your hair, sweeping it aside to bare your neck and shoulders. His other hand slowly peels your robe downward, exposing inch after inch of bare skin to his warm mouth.

Tender kisses rain softly down your spine as he draws his hips back, leaving you momentarily empty, only to surge forward again, ripping a sweetly startled whimper from your lips. 

The spoolie clatters into the sink, splattering the porcelain in the process.

“Guess it’s a good thing I don’t mind explaining to Spencer exactly why we’re late.”

He wouldn’t dare, of course he wouldn’t, but your body still preens at the implication, cunt tightening greedily around him as though daring him to prove you wrong.

Because, lately, Aaron has grown noticeably more brazen, perhaps due to the ease and intimacy building in your relationship, or maybe he’s finally giving into your bad (amazing, really) influence.

You’ve noticed it in tiny habits, like when he purposely rolls his sleeves up, putting those mouthwatering forearms on display after overhearing you confess just how much they distract you. Or how he picks ties that perfectly match his suits in ways you’ve gushed about, enjoying the obvious ways your eyes get stuck lingering in team meetings.

He’s even developed a charming habit of pointedly mentioning how wonderfully rested he feels each morning, making clear eye contact when Rossi wonders aloud why he looks so content.

He drives into you again, deeper, sending your nails clawing over the marble, arching yourself forward chasing every ounce of friction you can get.

But Aaron’s hand snakes around your waist, palm splayed across your stomach, guiding you upright until you’re pressed flush against him, the new angle forcing pleasure to surge hot and fast through every nerve ending.

His voice rumbles in your ear, “Keep working on your makeup, sweetheart. Or I’ll have to stop, and neither of us wants that.”

“Aaron,” you whine, drawing out his name in the most petulant, bratty tone you can muster, “I can’t.”

Instantly, he stills, cock fully seated inside you. You try to buck backward, trying to force your hips back against him, but his fingers clamp down around your waist, gripping with the kind of force that leaves marks you’ll admire later (like really cute, private trophies).

His free hand slips lower, fingertips pinching your clit.

You cry out, writhing against him. “Okay, okay, I’ll behave, just, please.”

Your hand fumbles along the vanity, nails knocking loudly into bottles and compacts until, finally, you find your lipliner. 

Aaron rewards your compliance by ramming back into you, obliterating any remaining hand-eye coordination. Your fingers wobble uncontrollably, resulting in an uneven, messy trail of color from your cupid’s bow to who-knows-where.

“That’s more like it. Look at you,” Aaron taunts, “Mouth open, looking so damn pretty.” His thumb lethargically grazes your overly-sensitive nub, causing your lips to part further, deepening your pout. He chuckles softly, clearly amused and more than a little cocky as he studies your reflection, eyes darkening. “Yeah, exactly like that, sweet girl.”

Aaron accelerates his motions, hips snapping roughly, hard enough to send you bouncing onto your tiptoes. Honestly, if his dick was any bigger, you’d need heels just to reach the floor.

Your robe begins to fall away from your shoulder, silky fabric separating to expose the swell of your breast, instantly capturing Aaron’s full gaze, pupils blown wide.

His hand deserts your waist, reaching up to cup your tit, thumb rolling over your nip, coaxing it into a tight little peak. You moan helplessly, eyes mascara-blurred as you attempt to keep your lip color within the lines of increasingly messy lips.

“Having trouble concentrating?” Aaron asks mildly, sounding completely unaffected for someone who’s currently buried eight inches deep inside you.

“I’m — I’m trying.”

He responds by squeezing your nipple a little harder. “So I noticed.”

You squirm wildly beneath him, his chest pressed down against your back, each thrust hitting a spot that makes your brain fizz into pink bubbles. 

Your thoughts spin in a dizzy disaster — Oh my god, Aaron, I can’t, wait, no, I definitely can, please keep going, love you, love you, love you, until half-formed thoughts turn into breathless declarations from your lips about how perfect he is, how you’d marry him tomorrow (white dress, cake and vows) if he’d just keep doing exactly this.

His control frays simultaneously, composed grunts fading into needy, unfiltered whispers against your flushed skin.

His words tumble out just as desperate as your own ramblings — how beautiful you are, how he’d buy you anything, give you anything — a ring, maybe even a baby, anything that would bind you to him forever.

The words send you careening into ecstasy, orgasm igniting within you in bright, syrupy bursts more saccharin than you thought possible. Those perfect promises twist around your core like velvet ropes, pulling tighter with every dreamy picture they paint (domestic bliss, pretty nurseries, endless forevers) until you’re seeing stars and giggling between gasping moans.

Your spine bows as you pulse around him, waves of pleasure radiating outward, turning you both into a trembling mess of sweaty, feverish harmony. 

You feel Aaron spill inside you, and for one fleeting, impulsive second, you catch yourself wishing your birth control would magically fail, just this once.

He slowly eases out of you, legs immediately trembling in complaint, his cum trickling down your inner thighs. You slump against the counter, breath uneven, as Aaron grabs a washcloth to dampen it.

The mirror does not go easy on you. Mascara in streaks across your eyelids and cheeks, lipstick color smeared, well, everywhere. You shoot him a half-hearted glare. He has the audacity to return a proud smirk.

“What?” he shrugs, biting back a laugh. “I think it’s a good look on you.”

You wiggle impatiently, trying to escape Aaron’s hold, your overstimulated body shivering and twitching at every careful wipe of the cloth. 

You glance at the clock. “Spencer is so going to hate us forever.”

 “The reservations got pushed back.” He tightens his grip, one strong arm cinching around your waist. “Spencer texted, they’re running late, something about forgetting stuff at home.”

You spin quickly in his arms. “That is literally the first thing you should’ve told me!”

“And miss watching you get flustered? Not a chance.”

You stick your tongue out defiantly, because that’s obviously the mature, adult way to handle your boyfriend teasing you.

The reward, though, is immediate — a soft, genuine laugh bubbles from Aaron, warming every little corner of your heart and fluttering down to your toes. 

He reaches past you, plucking a packet of makeup wipes from the counter, and his touch, as he gently presses it to your cheekbone, is stupidly gentle, dabbing at your face in a lazy, affectionate path.

You melt right into his palm, almost feline in your contentment, purring with how sweet it feels to be touched like this.

“You know what I’m thinking about?” Peering up at him through your lashes, you flash a smile, “Our first kiss.”

“Funny, so was I.” Aaron’s whole face shifts, eyes crinkling at the corners, the tenderest smile spreading openly across his mouth. “You know, after you fell asleep that night, I sat awake for way too long, worrying you might wake up in the morning regretting it,” he admits softly. “I had a whole speech planned, this overly formal, completely unnecessary lecture about workplace ethics and chain of command. You would’ve rolled your eyes so hard.”

You giggle, sliding your arms snugly around his middle, tipping your head back to look up at him.

“You and your speeches,” you tease. “Lucky for you, I was already planning how to seduce you the second I woke up.”

His mouth finds the corner of yours.

“Well, you’ve always had much better instincts than me.”

You tap his chest lightly. “So, um, did you happen to mention something about giving me a baby earlier or was that just my post-orgasmic delirium talking?”

Aaron laughs. “I might have gotten carried away.”

“No baby, then? Just empty promises?”

“Who said anything about empty?” He smirks, fingertips dancing along your spine. “I just thought it’d be polite to give you my last name before we start creating miniature versions of ourselves.”

“Careful, talk like that will earn you all kinds of privileges.” You reach up, pinching his cheek.

“Good.” He grabs your wrist, kissing the inside of it. “And just so we’re clear, I plan to extensively take advantage for the next, oh, forty or fifty years.”

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[cbeargyu]

hi! can i make a request of husband beomgyu pls 🥹 love you as always <33

second chance

summary: after weeks apart and a looming divorce, a tearful call from beomgyu leads to an emotional reunion. through painful honesty, soft memories, and tender promises, you both choose to love again.

pairing: husband!beomgyu x wife!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, slow burn, marriage reconciliation, established relationship

warnings: mentions of divorce, emotional breakdowns, crying, soft intimate scenes (suggestive not explicit), hopeful ending.

wc: 9,3k

notes: anon, thank you for your request T-T beomgyu as a husband is such a cute concept, I love him so much, these days I've been so obsessed with him, as you can tell, he's the one I've written the most fanfics about HAHAHA but really, I can't let him go, I hope you like this fic🩷

the second you heard the door unlock, your heart sank. not from fear, not even from fury anymore—just from the unbearable weight of disappointment. 2:47 a.m. the digital clock on the wall blinked mockingly in the silence. your legs were stiff from sitting too long, your arms folded so tightly across your chest they almost numbed your skin.

beomgyu walked in quietly, carelessly, like it wasn’t the third time that week he got home long past midnight.

he looked up, and for a moment, he froze. “you’re still up?”

you didn’t move. “yeah. shocking, huh?”

he let out a soft sigh and closed the door behind him, dropping his keys in the little ceramic bowl you’d both picked out together on your honeymoon. “we stayed late. my boss brought everyone drinks.”

you laughed under your breath, but it was bitter and sharp. “again?”

“it wasn’t like that,” he mumbled, toeing off his shoes. “you know how it is. if i want a shot at the promotion, i have to—”

“what?” you interrupted, your voice calm but taut like a stretched wire. “kiss ass? let him walk you around like some lapdog while your wife waits up, thinking maybe this time he’s in a ditch somewhere? or maybe—just maybe—he’s fucking someone else?”

he straightened up sharply. “don’t do that.”

“don’t do what?” you tilted your head, your expression unreadable. “don’t say out loud what’s been sitting in my throat for months?”

“you know damn well i wouldn’t cheat on you,” he snapped, finally facing you head-on. “i’ve been busting my ass for us. for this house. for our future.”

“and what future is that, beomgyu?” your voice cracked despite you. “we haven’t kissed in weeks. you don’t even look at me when we’re in bed. you roll over, you sleep, you wake up, you leave. when did we stop being us?”

he walked past you, his face hard, avoiding your gaze as if it burned. “i’m tired, y/n. we both are.”

“so that’s it? you’re tired?” you followed him, your steps heavier, breath catching in your throat. “we used to be a team. now we’re just… roommates who occasionally fight.”

he turned slowly, exhaustion etched deep in the lines under his eyes. “i don’t know what to do anymore.”

you looked at him for a long time. really looked. he was still your husband. still the boy who walked you home from school in the rain, who held your hand during every hospital visit your mom had, who cried like a child on your wedding night because he couldn’t believe he got to marry you.

but he was also someone else now. someone closed off. hardened.

“maybe we should separate,” you said, and it landed between you both like a gunshot in a silent room.

his lips parted, but no sound came out.

“just… for a while,” you added, as if softening the blow would make it less real. “i’ll go to my parents’ place in the morning. take some time to think.”

beomgyu looked down, his fists trembling by his sides. and then, slowly, he nodded.

“if this marriage is hurting us more than helping us,” he said hoarsely, “then maybe… yeah. maybe it’s the right thing.”

you didn’t cry. not then. your throat burned and your chest felt like it had caved in, but no tears came. maybe because you’d cried them all out on nights like this, waiting and waiting, hoping he’d still fight for you.

he didn’t beg. didn’t ask you to stay.

he just turned away.

when the sun broke through the blinds, the house felt like a ghost town. you barely said anything as you stuffed a few bags, folding clothes like you were packing for a short trip instead of leaving a life behind. beomgyu helped, but in silence. his face blank, his movements mechanical.

he walked you to the car with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“you should take the car,” he said, handing you the keys. “it’ll be safer. i'll manage.”

you stared at him for a long time, hoping—just hoping—he’d stop you. say something. ask you to give him one more day. but all he did was give you a sad smile.

“take care,” he murmured, barely audible. “let’s think about everything. properly. maybe some space is what we need.”

you bit the inside of your cheek so hard it tasted like iron. “yeah,” you said, your voice cracking. “maybe.”

you didn’t look back.

the drive to your parents’ house took forty minutes. but it felt like you were crossing continents. the entire world blurred outside your window as you clutched the steering wheel like a lifeline. every traffic light turned green for you—no stops. no pauses. just movement.

when you pulled into the familiar driveway, your hands were shaking.

your mother opened the door before you even rang the bell. maybe she’d known. maybe mothers always do. you didn’t say anything—you just collapsed into her arms, burying your face into her shoulder as the tears finally came, violent and unstoppable.

“oh, my love…” she whispered, stroking your hair. “you’re home.”

you clung to her like a child, sobbing harder than you had in years. twelve years. twelve years with beomgyu. how do you start to forget something that was your whole life?

“noona?” a softer voice called from behind.

you turned and saw jungwon standing there, already taller than you, his eyes wide and worried.

he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you tightly. “it’s gonna be okay,” he said with that naive, youthful certainty. “you’re gonna be okay.”

you laughed through your tears, kissing his forehead. “you’re so tall now,” you whispered, trying to smile. “when did that happen?”

“started high school this month,” he said, proud. “i’m not a baby anymore.”

you ruffled his hair, your smile wobbly. “you’ll always be my baby brother.”

and for a fleeting second, the weight in your chest lifted.

when the sobs finally slowed, and your mother’s arms loosened just enough for you to breathe again, she gently cupped your face and kissed your forehead.

“go lie down, honey. you must be exhausted,” she said softly, brushing your hair back like she used to when you were little. “your room is ready.”

you nodded, barely able to answer. your eyes were sore, your body heavy, and your heart… your heart felt frayed in ways you hadn’t even begun to understand.

you walked down the familiar hallway, feet padding against the cool tiles. everything looked smaller now—narrower, dimmer. like the house had aged with you, quietly, patiently waiting for you to come home.

you stopped in front of your old bedroom door.

it had been over seven years. seven years since you last turned that doorknob. seven years since you packed all your things and left with beomgyu, full of hope, your heart bursting with love and plans and dreams. you hesitated for a moment, almost afraid of what you’d find inside.

but when you opened the door, it felt like stepping into a memory.

everything was exactly as you’d left it.

the pale blue curtains fluttered gently in the breeze. your bed was neatly made with the same faded sheets you used in high school—soft cotton, patterned with tiny constellations. your desk sat untouched beneath the window, the surface bare except for an old lamp and a few dust-free trinkets. the shelves were empty. the repisas above your bed were clean, but void of the books and little figurines you once adored.

the air smelled faintly of lavender, of clean linen and something sweetly nostalgic. the sunlight filtered in, casting quiet shadows on the floor, painting soft lines across the blank surfaces.

you stepped inside slowly, your hand brushing against the smooth edge of the wooden desk. your fingers trembled. your chest felt hollow.

“i always kept it clean,” your mother said from behind you, her voice low and warm. “just in case you ever needed it again.”

you turned to look at her, eyes stinging. she smiled gently and stepped forward, fixing a corner of the bedsheet like it had even needed fixing. “didn’t have the heart to change it. not even the curtains.”

your throat tightened.

“everything’s gone,” you whispered, walking over to the empty shelves. “it used to be full.”

“you took your life with you,” she replied, resting a hand on your back. “as it should be.”

you nodded, staring at the barren walls that had once held photos, posters, love notes, your high school class schedule… now they were just walls.

“you can put things back, if you want,” she added. “or leave them like this. it’s yours, however you need it.”

you didn’t answer right away. you walked over to your bed and sat down slowly, the mattress creaking softly beneath you. it felt both familiar and foreign—like hugging an old friend you hadn’t seen in years.

“i don’t even know what i need right now,” you said finally, staring at the floor.

your mom leaned down, kissed the top of your head. “then don’t decide anything tonight.”

she left you there in the silence, in that sacred, untouched space that had once been your refuge from the world. and now, again, it was.

you lay down slowly, curling up on your side, the same way you used to after long school days when the world felt too loud. the tears came again—but not violently this time. they came slow. quiet. like raindrops on a forgotten window.

twelve years.

you were sixteen when you met beomgyu. seventeen when you told him you wanted forever. twenty when you moved in together. twenty-three when you married him. and now… now you were twenty-eight and sleeping in your childhood bed, wondering how everything that once felt like fate had slipped between your fingers like sand.

you stared at the ceiling, your fingers curled into the pillow.

somewhere, back in the apartment you shared, beomgyu was probably lying awake too. maybe staring at your side of the bed. maybe not. maybe already letting you go.

but you weren’t ready to let go.

once your breathing returned to something steady and the tightness in your throat dulled into a quiet ache, you wiped your face with the back of your hand. the room still smelled like childhood, like comfort, but now it carried a tinge of sorrow too. you stood up from the bed, deciding to distract yourself, to at least put away the few things you’d brought with you.

you started with the closet.

opening it felt strange—like opening a door to the past, like stepping into something that had once been yours but had lived without you for years. the hangers were empty, the shelves dusted and bare. but down at the bottom, tucked into the corner where the light didn’t quite reach, you saw them.

boxes.

you blinked, frowning. boxes?

and then you remembered.

you had left them there.

they didn’t fit in the moving truck. there hadn’t been space, and you’d told yourself you’d come back for them later. you never did.

the curiosity itched at you instantly, like the gentle tug of memory pulling at your sleeve. what had you packed away? what pieces of yourself had you abandoned without meaning to?

you pulled one box out and placed it on the bed.

when you lifted the lid, the scent of old paper, dried ink, and something faintly sweet hit you. your breath caught in your throat.

letters.

photographs.

little gifts.

neatly stacked, carefully organized. like a timeline of your love. from the very first spark to the last flame before the plunge into adulthood.

you sat down, your knees weak, heart already pounding.

the first letter on top was creased and slightly yellowed at the edges. your name was written in beomgyu’s handwriting, back when it was still a little uneven, back when he still dotted his i’s with tiny hearts just to make you blush.

“i don’t know if you’ll ever like me back, but i think i like you too much not to say something. you smile like you invented the sun and every time you laugh i forget how to breathe. if you ever give me a chance, i swear i’ll make you the happiest girl in the whole damn school. maybe even the planet.”

you exhaled shakily, fingers trembling as you folded it back up.

you moved on to the next one. his confession letter, written after your first date at the old arcade in town.

“i still can’t believe you said yes. i haven’t stopped smiling since saturday. i keep thinking about how cold your hands were and how you still let me hold them anyway. i think you’re magic. like… like maybe you’re not even real. i don’t know. i’m just really, really lucky.”

another tear slipped down your cheek.

beneath the letters were bundles of polaroids tied with ribbon. you untied one, your lips parting as you flipped through them.

you and beomgyu holding ice creams, faces smeared with strawberry and chocolate.

a blurry one of him carrying you on his back through the rain.

another one from your first trip to seoul, sitting on the subway, both of you looking exhausted but so in love.

and then… your first anniversary. there you were, cheek to cheek, grinning at the camera, and between you stood jungwon, five years old, flashing a crooked peace sign like he was the star of the photo. he had two front teeth missing and a bowl cut that you’d teased him about for months.

you let out a choked laugh, the sound watery and fragile.

next was a box of keepsakes—movie tickets, pressed flowers, the wrapper from your first shared chocolate bar. even the doodles he used to leave in your notebooks during boring lectures.

“stay awake, sleepyhead <3 you promised me lunch after class!!”

“reminder: i love you more than ramen. and that’s saying a lot.”

your hands reached for one more envelope—thicker than the rest. inside were pages and pages written in his voice. you recognized the style immediately.

it was the letter he gave you on your 100 days.

“people say 100 days isn’t much. but for me, it’s been everything. 100 days of waking up excited. 100 days of knowing i’m yours. 100 days of learning your laugh and the way your eyes crinkle when you’re really happy. i don’t ever want to stop counting. 200 days. 500. 1,000. i want all of them, with you.”

you pressed the paper to your lips.

you couldn’t remember the last time he wrote you something. couldn’t remember the last time you kissed without it feeling like a routine. without checking the clock. without your mind already racing toward work, bills, dinner.

you leaned back slowly, curling up on your bed with the open box beside you, the letters scattered across your chest like armor and daggers at the same time.

he used to write you poetry on napkins.

he used to hold your hand under the table at family dinners.

he used to tell you that even on his worst days, coming home to you made him believe the world wasn’t so bad.

when had it all changed?

when did the love become background noise? when did you both stop fighting for each other?

you closed your eyes, the ache in your chest sharper now—because this love had been real. it had been raw and loud and beautiful. and now it was bruised and quiet and bleeding out slowly between your fingers.

you fell asleep without meaning to.

the tears never really stopped, they just slowed, like rain running out of strength. your arms curled around the open letters, clutching them tightly against your chest as if they'd vanish if you let go. the box of memories lay beside you, its contents half-spilled across the bed. it still smelled like him—like ink, cologne, and something warm you couldn’t name.

you didn’t remember when your eyelids gave in.

but suddenly… you were somewhere else.

you blinked against a brightness that felt unreal.

the sky above you was the kind of blue that looked painted, too soft and pure to exist in real life. you were lying on something hard—cement? gravel? no, the warm tiles of a school courtyard. familiar. strange.

the hum of voices buzzed in the distance.

you sat up slowly.

your limbs felt light, your body foreign. when you looked down, your heart lurched violently in your chest. you were wearing your old high school uniform—navy skirt, white blouse with the school crest stitched at the corner. your nails were painted a glossy burgundy, long and delicate like you never wore them now. your hair brushed past your waist.

what the hell...?

you stood, dizzy.

your eyes scanned the courtyard. same fountain, same benches, the same vending machine that used to swallow coins and never return drinks. everything was how you remembered it, but not how it should be.

and then—

there he was.

beomgyu.

but not your husband.

no.

this was the seventeen-year-old version of him. he was running across the courtyard, brows furrowed with something urgent, panic written all over his face. his backpack bounced on his back, shirt untucked, tie crooked—exactly how he used to wear it when he didn’t care about dress code.

you took a step toward him.

“beomgyu—”

but nothing came out.

your voice caught in your throat like a breath that never formed. you tried again, louder, desperate.

silence.

you looked down at yourself, touched your lips, tried to scream—but no sound, no reaction, like your existence here didn’t register.

and he didn’t look at you.

he ran right past you.

your stomach dropped.

you spun around, confused, breath shaky.

was that...?

a crowd was gathering. a cluster of students forming a circle near the gymnasium doors, their murmurs rising in pitch. you moved toward them, heart thudding like a warning, dread curling in your stomach. you pushed past ghost-like silhouettes, none of them noticing you.

and then you saw.

him.

beomgyu pushed through the crowd, dropped to his knees without hesitation.

and beside him—

on the ground—

was you.

you.

the past you. passed out. lips pale, skin gleaming with sweat, the buttons of your blouse undone at the top as someone had tried to help you breathe. your limbs sprawled awkwardly on the warm tile, your chest rising faintly with shallow breaths.

he was panicking.

his hands cupped your face with such care, trembling as he brushed your hair from your forehead.

“someone call the nurse!” he shouted. “she’s burning up—fuck, where’s her water bottle?”

his voice cracked.

you could feel his fear from here. how tightly he held you. how his fingers gripped yours even unconscious.

and then—memory crashed into you like a wave.

that day.

that impossibly hot, breathless day.

you had collapsed during p.e., heat exhaustion hitting harder than you expected. you didn’t even know beomgyu back then. maybe you'd seen him in a few classes, heard the way he always made everyone laugh. but you never talked. you didn’t think he even knew your name.

but when your body gave up, it was him.

he was the first one to move. the one who didn’t wait. the one who lifted you in his arms like you weighed nothing, running all the way to the infirmary with you whispering nonsense against his collar.

he didn’t leave your side that day.

he stayed.

until your eyes opened again.

and he smiled like he’d just seen the sun rise after a storm.

you remembered your friends teasing you after.

“your knight in wrinkled uniform.”

“your hero with pretty smile.”

and from then on, he never left your orbit.

but now—why were you seeing this?

why were you outside of it, watching like a stranger?

you tried to move closer, but your feet felt heavy, stuck.

everything blurred, like fog on glass.

and in a blink, the courtyard faded.

you were standing in the hallway now. the infirmary door cracked open. you could hear soft voices inside.

you peeked.

and there he was again—beomgyu, sitting beside your unconscious self, head in his hands. he looked young, terrified, still catching his breath.

“you scared me,” he whispered.

“please don’t do that again.”

and then he looked up, straight at where you were standing.

your heart stopped.

his eyes met yours.

but… that wasn’t possible. right?

his gaze didn’t drift away. he stared, like he saw you.

like he was looking through time.

“is it really you?” he said softly.

and before you could move—before you could answer—

everything went dark.

the dream shattered into blackness.

and you gasped awake in your old bed, the letters still clutched in your arms, your chest heaving.

your cheeks were damp. your hands were shaking. and somewhere, deep in your bones, the feeling of that day still lingered.

he had saved you back then.

you didn’t know what this dream meant. but one thing was clear.

something inside you had shifted.

the love you thought was lost wasn’t gone.

it was buried.

you woke up with a dry throat and a strange weight in your chest—one of those mornings where your body feels like it came back from somewhere far, far away. the room looked familiar, your old bedroom at your mother’s house, but you felt like a stranger inside it.

there was something off. you couldn’t tell if it had all been a dream or something more. the feeling clung to your skin like humidity. the memory of the uniform, the sun on your face, beomgyu kneeling beside your crumpled body on the schoolyard… it wasn’t fading. If anything, it felt sharper now. too vivid.

you went downstairs, still in your sleep shirt, walking like someone who didn’t fully trust the floor. your mom was already at the stove, flipping something in a pan. she turned as she heard you step into the kitchen, a soft frown on her face.

"morning, honey. you look like you’ve seen a ghost," she said with a half-smile, handing you your favorite mug, the one with the chipped handle.

you held it between your fingers like it might slip.

"i didn’t sleep well. that’s all," you muttered. "weird dreams."

you didn’t elaborate. what could you say? that you had felt him again? that you’d heard his voice in your bones?

the workday dragged by in a blur of emails, and pretending to care about things you couldn’t name. everything felt like a shell. like a play. you smiled and nodded, typed “best regards” with fingers that wanted to tremble.

by the time you returned to your mother’s house, the sun was low and warm, and the kitchen smelled like soy sauce and rice. you joined her, needing something to do with your hands, with your mind.

"i found some boxes in my old room," you said as you stirred the soup. "stuff i never took with me."

"yeah, i saw them. i never opened them," she replied. "didn’t know what they had… and i guess i didn’t want to look."

you both fell quiet after that. until the doorbell rang, and jungwon came in, cheerful as ever, making the house feel a little less haunted. the dinner was full of small talk, laughter that didn’t quite reach your chest—but it helped. It let you forget, for a while.

but when night came… the fear returned.

you lay in bed, eyes wide, body tense. you were scared—not of dreaming, but of remembering. of feeling everything again and not knowing what it meant.

eventually, sleep took you like a wave crashing over your head.

and again—you opened your eyes.

you were sitting on a wooden bench. the air was soft and golden. it was late, nearing sunset. the sky was lilac, dotted with floating lanterns. somewhere nearby, people were laughing, music echoed faintly in the distance. you were wearing a pink hanbok, your hair braided and pinned up in a way you hadn’t worn it in years.

your feet… ached.

you looked down and saw them—bare, red, sore. small blisters on your heels.

this day.

that day.

your first date with beomgyu. chuseok. the festival with the food stalls and the lanterns, the one where your shoes betrayed you halfway through the evening.

you turned your head just as his voice wrapped around you.

"y/n! there you are."

you looked up and saw him—young, flushed from running, holding two corn dogs, a plastic bag, and two drinks crushed between his fingers. he looked breathless and beautiful, like he always had.

"sorry, i took forever. there were too many people, and finding these was a nightmare," he said, smiling as he approached.

he handed you the corn dogs and set the drinks down beside you on the bench. then, without asking, he knelt in front of you.

you could barely breathe.

from his pocket, he pulled out a little box of band-aids.

"no one was selling these inside, so i had to go out to find a pharmacy. you should’ve told me your feet were killing you."

his voice was soft, a little scolding, a lot loving.

with gentle hands, he cradled your foot, cleaning it with a tissue from his bag before carefully applying the band-aid to the angry skin. the sensation made your breath hitch. he was so close. so warm.

"you should’ve said something," he murmured.

and before you could stop yourself, before you even thought to speak, you heard your own voice say:

"but i wanted to be with you."

you froze.

not because it was untrue—but because those were the exact words you had said back then. not now. then.

beomgyu blinked. he looked at you like you had just stabbed him sweetly in the chest.

he adjusted the cheap plastic sandals he’d bought for you, gently securing them around your sore feet. then he stood, slowly, standing in front of you with a look that was shy and full of something deeper.

he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips grazing your skin like a whisper.

"i liked you before this," he said, his voice low, trembling. "but that night… i knew i couldn’t let you go."

your chest clenched. you swallowed hard, eyes already burning.

he leaned in.

so close, so slow, like gravity itself was pulling you toward him.

you closed your eyes.

his breath met yours. you tilted your head, lips parting.

and just—just as his lips were about to touch yours—

you woke up.

gasping.

heart racing like a runaway train. sheets tangled around your legs, skin hot, mouth dry.

but the scent of grilled corn dogs and candy still lingered.

the feel of his hands on your skin hadn’t left.

and in the silence of your old room, as you clutched your chest and tried to breathe, you knew it:

these weren’t dreams.

not just dreams.

they were memories.

and something—someone—was reaching out from the past.

the dream fades, slow and reluctant, like a fog lifting from a lake at dawn. you wake up still tangled in the remnants of it—your breath uneven, skin warm where you swore his lips had touched it. you stay still for a while, buried in the sheets that no longer smell like him, eyes fixed on the ceiling that’s slowly turning gold with the rising sun. your heart aches in that dull, pulsing way it always does now, as if it knows it’s missing something crucial but can’t quite remember what. you reach for your phone instinctively, fingers trembling just a little as you check your notifications. nothing. no messages. no missed calls. no beomgyu.

you shouldn’t be surprised. it’s been days. still, the emptiness stings in a new way every morning. it plants itself in your throat and swells throughout your chest as you force yourself out of bed. you go through the motions—brush your teeth, wash your face, stare at your own tired reflection and try not to ask why you look so hollow. you throw on the same sweater you’ve worn all week, the one that used to be his, and head out the door into a world that keeps spinning, oblivious to your slow unraveling.

the office is a blur of white light and cold coffee. your coworkers smile and chatter, and you nod when expected, laugh when prompted, answer emails like you haven’t been dying a little more each day. you check your phone again and again between tasks, hoping for a miracle notification, a simple “hey” that might put your heart back together. it never comes. during lunch, you barely touch your food, appetite lost to a gnawing ache in your stomach that no amount of rice or tea can soothe. when the day finally ends, you don’t go home. you wander instead, drifting through the streets like a ghost, ending up in front of the tiny bookstore he used to take you to. you step inside, hoping for comfort in old pages and the smell of ink.

you flip through poetry books, and a line jumps out at you: “i do not know what i was made for, but when you cried into my mouth, i remembered.” it hits something deep, something raw. you close the book and leave without buying anything.

your mom is asleep when you get home. you shower slowly, let the water wash over your face like it could cleanse the sadness out of you. it doesn’t. you fall into bed fully clothed, the blankets too heavy and the air too quiet. sleep takes you quickly, dragging you back under, where your heart can remember what your mind tries so hard to forget.

in the dream, you’re on the school rooftop, the wind tossing your hair like in some cheesy drama. you’re standing next to beomgyu, his presence warm and familiar beside you. the sky above is overcast, a storm on the verge of breaking. a group of students lingers nearby, and one girl—minhee, her voice sharp as broken glass—smirks as she speaks just loud enough for you to hear.

“he’s going to leave you,” she says with venomous confidence. “he told me he liked me. he just doesn’t know how to break up with you yet.”

your heart stops. your throat tightens. you turn to beomgyu, eyes searching his face for denial, for reassurance, for anything to counter the horror clawing at your chest. he frowns deeply, jaw tightening as he looks at minhee with disgust.

“she’s lying,” he says, stepping between you and the venom she left behind. “she’s been trying to get in between us for weeks. i told her to stop. she just wants attention.”

you want to believe him. god, you do. but the damage is already done. your eyes well with tears you can’t control, your vision blurs, and the ache in your chest sharpens.

“i just… i don’t want to lose you,” you whisper, your voice cracking like fragile glass. “even the thought of it hurts.”

his face softens instantly. he cups your cheeks in both hands, thumbs brushing away tears as fast as they fall, like he’s trying to undo the pain with just his touch.

“you won’t lose me,” he says quietly, urgently. “i’m not going anywhere. you’re the only one i look at. the only one i want. the only one i love.”

he kisses your forehead, your nose, your cheeks—lips gentle as feathers—before finally kissing your lips with a soft, lingering tenderness that makes your knees tremble. as he kisses you, more tears come, falling silently down your face, not from doubt anymore, but from overwhelming relief. he kisses each tear, one by one, whispering promises against your skin like prayers.

you wake up with your pillow soaked. the tears haven’t stopped. your chest rises and falls too fast, the sobs sharp and painful, tearing through your throat as your hands clutch the sheets. it wasn’t real. it was just a dream. but your body doesn’t know that. your heart doesn’t know that. you cry harder than you have in weeks, and for once, you let yourself. because it felt real. because you miss him. because he hasn’t written to you. because he promised he wouldn’t leave, and now he’s gone.

you curl into a ball under the blankets, breath catching in your throat, willing yourself to fall asleep again, hoping you’ll see him there—just for a little while longer.

the next morning is no kinder. your eyes are swollen, your limbs heavy, your spirit dulled. you check your phone. still nothing. the silence is louder than any goodbye.

your routine drags on—shower, coffee, the same lifeless office, the same forced smiles. your coworkers laugh at something, and it grates on your nerves. how can they laugh when your world is crumbling? you eat a single apple for lunch and throw away the rest. you scroll through old messages, rereading the way he used to say “good morning” like it meant something sacred. you ache.

that night, you fall asleep with the phone clutched in your hand.

and again, you dream.

this time, you’re in his room. the lamp is dim, casting a golden glow over his features. he’s watching you like you’re made of galaxies, and you’re breathing fast, heart pounding in your throat. you remember this night. you remember every second.

you’d told him you were ready. to be his. completely. and he asked, with trembling hands and wide eyes, “are you sure?”

you nodded. you remember the way his lips parted, how his hands shook as they held your waist. how he touched you like you were something sacred.

it wasn’t perfect. it was real. clumsy giggles, soft gasps, the smell of his shampoo, the heat of his breath, the way he whispered your name like it was his salvation.

when it was over, he pulled you against his chest, kissing your forehead, your temple, your shoulder.

“i love you,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “i didn’t know love could feel like this.”

you said it back. again. and again.

you wake up gasping, a sob bursting from your throat like a wave. tears stream down your cheeks, soaking your skin, your pillow, your soul. you bury your face in the sheets, fists clenched in pain. it’s too much. too vivid. too real.

you remember how it felt.

you remember everything.

and now you’re alone.

and he still hasn’t written.

you dream again. every night now. your mind keeps dragging you back, stitching memories into something soft and cruel. this time it’s your first anniversary. it had rained all day, the kind of soft, moody rain that made the world feel quieter. you’d both been too broke to plan anything extravagant, so he cooked for you in that tiny kitchen with the crooked lightbulb that flickered every time someone opened the fridge. he was wearing an apron that didn’t fit him, sleeves rolled up, hair messy, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration as he tried not to burn the rice.

you’d sat at the counter, watching him like he was magic. he handed you a plate with a bashful grin, eyes glinting as he said, “chef gyu at your service.” you’d laughed until you cried, and then he kissed you with soy sauce on his lips and the sound of the rain tapping against the windows. later that night, you danced barefoot in the living room, holding onto each other like you were afraid the moment would slip away. you’d fallen asleep tangled on the couch, the half-eaten cake still on the table.

another night, another dream—this one hazier. your first time. not the night it finally happened, but all the nights it didn’t. the failed attempts, the soft gasps, the nervous hands, the whispered “it’s okay”s. neither of you knew what you were doing. you were clumsy and young and a little scared. but it never felt wrong. it felt like… learning. like loving someone deeply even in the awkward, imperfect moments. you remember one night, curled up in bed after another failed attempt, how he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “we don’t have to rush. i just like being with you.”

you held onto those words like a lifeline. even now. even when everything else is falling apart.

you wake up in tears again, the kind that come from too much remembering. it’s exhausting—this longing, this ache that stretches through your chest like a second heartbeat. you stare at the ceiling and tell yourself: you have to forget him. you have to move on. it’s over.

you pull up the divorce email thread. it’s half-filled, half-hearted. your replies are short. factual. robotic. there’s no signature at the end. just your name, plain and cold.

and then your phone buzzes.

his name flashes on the screen. beomgyu calling.

your heart stops. your fingers hover over the screen like they’re made of glass. for a second, you consider not answering. but something in you still reaches for him, even now.

you press accept.

“hello?”

his voice is quiet. rough. like he hadn’t used it all day.

“hey. uh…” there’s a pause. “i found a lawyer. a good one. she said she can help with the case. make it simple for both of us.”

you swallow hard, forcing air through your lungs.

“okay.”

“i thought…” he clears his throat. “maybe we could meet? after your shift. during my lunch break. there’s that restaurant near your office. the one with the bulgogi you like.”

your voice doesn’t tremble when you answer. you don’t know how. maybe you’ve grown numb.

“sure. that’s fine.”

“okay.” another pause. “see you then.”

he hangs up before you can say anything else. you sit in silence, the echo of his voice still clinging to the walls.

when you see him, it’s like being sucker-punched. he looks tired. thinner. the bags under his eyes speak volumes. he doesn’t smile when he sees you. doesn’t even fake it. he just holds the door open for you, silent and awkward.

you sit across from each other at a corner table. the waitress brings water. neither of you touches it.

he opens his folder and places a few documents on the table.

“she says we don’t have to go to court. we can file separately and sign within the next few weeks. no need to argue over property. it’s all split already. she gave me a list of steps.”

he hands you a copy. you don’t take it.

“beomgyu.”

his hands still.

“do you really want this?”

his eyes flicker to yours. and in them, you see it—everything. the love. the guilt. the fear.

he doesn’t speak for a long time. when he finally does, his voice is barely a whisper.

“i don’t know what i want anymore. i just know we’re not… us. not like we used to be.”

you nod slowly. your throat is tight, your heart thundering so loud it drowns out the sound of the restaurant.

“we used to be everything.”

he presses his lips together.

“and now we hurt each other more than we help.”

your eyes sting. you blink fast.

“so that’s it?”

he looks down at his hands.

“i think it’s better this way. for both of us.”

“but it doesn’t feel better.”

“no,” he says, almost breaking, “it fucking doesn’t.”

you sit there, surrounded by the smell of grilled meat and the quiet hum of people living lives you’re no longer sure how to live.

you reach for the water. take a small sip. it doesn’t help.

he folds the papers back into the folder. pushes it toward you.

“just think about it.”

you stare at the folder like it’s a bomb.

“yeah,” you whisper. “okay.”

the phone rings at 2:17 a.m.

you’re not asleep. you haven’t been for nights now. the sheets are tangled around your legs, your eyes raw from crying, and your chest feels like someone’s been sitting on it for hours. when you see his name on the screen, your breath catches in your throat. your thumb hovers above the green button, shaking. you hesitate for one, two, three seconds… and then you press it.

you don’t speak. neither does he. at first, it’s just the sound of the line open between you, the hum of silence, and then…

his voice breaks.

“i’m sorry.”

it’s quiet. hoarse. like he’s been crying long before this call. you sit up slowly, holding the phone to your ear like it might slip from your fingers.

“i shouldn’t be calling you but—fuck, i can’t sleep. i can’t breathe without thinking about you.”

you say his name, just a whisper. it leaves your lips like a prayer.

“beomgyu...”

and then he lets out a shaky breath, like he’s been waiting to hear your voice to fall apart completely.

“i miss you. i miss you so much, it’s driving me insane. every night i close my eyes and it’s you. you laughing, you calling my name, you dancing in the living room in that oversized sweater... everything reminds me of you.”

your bottom lip quivers, and you press the back of your hand to your mouth to muffle the sob that’s already building.

“i dream about us,” he whispers. “not just once. every single night. our first anniversary, your hands in mine... the way you looked at me when we promised we’d never give up on each other. i see it all. i wake up and i swear i can smell your shampoo on my pillow. but it’s not real. it’s never real.”

his breath hitches again, and now you can hear the tears in his voice, full and wet and unrestrained.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he says, breaking down mid-sentence. “i thought maybe if we separated, if we took space, it would get easier. that maybe this was what we needed. but i was wrong. it’s not easier. it’s fucking unbearable.”

you’re crying now. soft at first, but growing louder with every word that spills from him like a confession he’s been dying to make.

“i don’t want to influence your decision. if you want the divorce, if this is what you really want, i’ll sign everything. i’ll do whatever it takes to not make this harder for you.”

he goes silent for a moment, like it’s physically painful for him to say the next words.

“but i need you to know… i haven’t stopped loving you. not even for a second. you’ve always been it for me. even when we fought. even when we hurt each other. you are—”

his voice cracks and he breathes out your name like it’s breaking him.

“you are the love of my life.”

and something inside you shatters.

you clutch the phone tighter, your body folding in on itself from the weight of everything he’s saying. from the truth you’ve been trying to run away from.

“i still see you in everything,” he continues, voice trembling. “i see you in the places we used to go, in the goddamn coffee i make in the morning, in the way i can’t fall asleep without your breathing next to mine. this divorce... it’s not fixing anything. it’s just making me more aware of how much i need you. how much i still want you.”

you can’t hold it back anymore.

“beomgyu, please...”

you sob into the phone, your whole body shaking. he goes quiet, waiting. and then you hear it—his soft cry on the other side. broken. desperate. raw.

“i love you,” he says again, this time so tender it makes your heart convulse. “i love you so much. too much. and if i could go back and fix everything, i would. but if this is what you truly want… i’ll respect it.”

but even as he says the words, neither of you believes them. not really.

because the love is still there.

burning. aching. undying.

and in that moment, in the dark silence that follows, you both realize—

letting go might be harder than staying.

he goes quiet after saying he still loves you. the kind of silence that vibrates with weight. and just when you think the call might end, he exhales like something inside him snaps.

“i’m coming to see you.”

your heart stops.

“what?”

“i’m coming to see you. right now.”

you sit up, your pulse thundering. “beomgyu, no. it’s late, and you’re far—”

“i don’t care.” his voice is raw, breathless. “i don’t care how far it is. i just… i need to see you. even if it’s just once. even if you close the door in my face. i need to see you one last time before i lose my fucking mind.”

your throat tightens. the tears you’d barely managed to hold back spill freely now.

“beomgyu…”

“please,” he begs softly, “please don’t hang up.”

you shake your head, clutching the phone to your ear like it's the only thing anchoring you.

“i’m not going to hang up.”

and for a long moment, neither of you speaks. there’s only the sound of your shared breathing, uneven and emotional. your heart feels like it’s been torn wide open, and suddenly, words pour out before you can stop them.

“i’ve been dreaming about you too,” you whisper. “every night. i remember everything. our first time holding hands, the way you cried when you gave me your first letter, our anniversary… even the night we didn’t know what we were doing, but it didn’t matter because we loved each other so much it made up for everything. i wake up missing you so bad it hurts.”

you cover your mouth with your hand, sobbing softly.

“i thought i needed space to think clearly, but all i’ve done is remember every reason i fell in love with you. and it’s still there, beomgyu. it’s all still there. i can’t let you go. i don’t want to.”

there’s a silence so thick it feels like the world holds its breath. then—

“don’t say that unless you mean it,” he chokes out. “because i’ll be there in thirty minutes. i swear to god, baby, i’ll run red lights. i’ll come barefoot if i have to.”

and you whisper, “i mean it. come home.”

you don’t even change clothes. you wait by the door, heart in your throat, wiping your tears only for them to fall again. the longest thirty minutes of your life. your fingers twist the edge of your shirt. your feet tap nervously against the floor. your thoughts are a whirlwind. and then—

a knock.

you don’t even check the peephole. your body moves on instinct. you unlock the door and pull it open—

and there he is.

beomgyu, standing in the hallway, drenched in moonlight and grief and rain that must’ve started on the way. his hair’s a mess, sticking up like he ran both hands through it a hundred times. his shirt’s wrinkled, his jacket barely thrown on, shoes untied, cheeks streaked with tears. his eyes—god, his eyes—are swollen and red and filled with a kind of devastation you’ve never seen on him.

he opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out.

instead, he stumbles forward.

his arms wrap around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. he buries his face into your shoulder, and you feel his body tremble as the first sob rips through him.

“you’re here,” you whisper, voice broken.

he clutches you tighter.

“i couldn’t stay away.”

you press your face into his neck, breathing him in, letting the heat of him soak through your skin.

“i missed you,” he cries into your hair. “i missed you so fucking much, i didn’t know how to survive it.”

you both collapse to your knees just inside the doorway, tangled in each other, crying, holding, clinging.

and in the silence of your shared heartbreak, something begins to heal.

because he came.

because you still love him.

because love like this doesn't die.

you don’t know how long you stay there, on your knees in the entryway, holding each other like lifelines. time folds in on itself. the only thing real is the weight of his arms around you, the way he breathes your name into your skin like a prayer, and the way your hands tremble as they run through his damp hair.

then, a light flicks on down the hall. footsteps shuffle. your heart skips.

your mom appears, sleepy-eyed and wrapped in a soft robe, confusion etched into her face—until she sees you both.

her expression softens instantly.

“beomgyu,” she says quietly, blinking at the sight of him. “you’re here.”

he lifts his head from your shoulder, cheeks wet, lips trembling. “hi, mrs. yang.”

your mom’s eyes move between the two of you, piecing it all together. the tears. the way you hold each other. the way neither of you has moved from the doorway like you were afraid letting go might make it all disappear again.

she steps closer, places a gentle hand on your back.

“come inside. talk. say everything you’ve been holding in before it’s too late. don’t let the routine, or the silence, or the fear kill the love you built. you two have something worth fighting for.”

and just like that, she leaves you alone again, giving you the space your hearts desperately need.

you help him up, hands never leaving his. and you sit together on the old couch in the living room—the one that witnessed countless lazy sunday mornings, shared meals, stolen kisses, fights, makeups, and all the little moments that built your marriage.

you sit close, your knees touching. your fingers linked like you’re relearning each other.

“i don’t even know where to start,” you whisper.

“then start here,” he says, cupping your face with one trembling hand. “i love you. i never stopped. not for a second.”

you cry again, soft and open, and he catches your tears with his lips.

“i thought we were done,” you murmur, voice cracking. “i thought the love ran out.”

“we just got lost,” he says. “too much noise. too much pretending we were okay. i didn’t know how to ask for more. i didn’t know how to tell you i missed you even when you were lying right beside me.”

you lean into him, forehead pressed against his.

“we let it all pile up.”

he nods, breath shaky. “but i don’t want to give up. i want to work on it. every single day. i’ll learn how to love you better. i’ll talk more. i’ll listen harder. just… let me try again.”

you answer him with a kiss. slow. trembling. sweet and deep like home.

and when it grows late—when your bodies are too exhausted from all the crying, the confessing, the ache—you take his hand again and lead him to your bedroom. the same one you once shared, where the mattress still holds the shape of your memories.

you crawl under the sheets together, like you never stopped belonging there. his arms wrap around your waist, your legs tangle with his, and his nose presses into your neck like he’s memorizing the scent of you all over again.

your hands explore his face, his shoulders, like tracing the edges of your favorite story.

he whispers, “is this real?”

you nod, pressing your lips to his.

“stay,” you whisper. “for tonight. and tomorrow. and as long as you want.”

he exhales the softest sound, a smile breaking through the pain.

“always.”

and that night, you sleep curled against each other. his fingers never stop moving—over your back, your cheek, your lips. your kisses never stop—on his forehead, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

and just like that, two people who thought they were lost find each other again. not in grand gestures, but in small ones. in held hands. whispered apologies. quiet laughter between tears.

in love that refused to die.

after the long and emotional night at your parents’ house, you and beomgyu returned to your shared apartment—your home. it looked the same, smelled the same, every object still in place. but it felt different. lighter. as if the air had been scrubbed clean of silence and bitterness.

you unpacked slowly, side by side, laughing at the amount of socks he still had under the bed, and how your favorite mug had survived the weeks of absence.

you sat on the bed together that night and talked. about the little things—how many cups of coffee you’d had, what your coworker had said to you, how loud the subway had been.

you let your bodies melt into each other under the sheets, arms tangled, whispers between kisses, touching each other with the reverence of people who almost lost everything.

that night, you didn’t just make love. you healed. you forgave.

the next morning, you made breakfast together. you accidentally spilled flour on the counter, and he smeared some on your nose, laughing as you gasped. he kissed the flour off your skin before handing you the whisk.

you stood behind him, arms around his waist, swaying slightly to the soft music playing from the speaker as pancakes cooked. and when he turned around to feed you a bite, his smile was sunshine.

days passed, then weeks. and each one felt like a little piece of heaven earned.

you both kept your promise.

every night before sleeping, no matter how tired, you shared something from your day. sometimes it was a joke, sometimes a frustration. but it was always honest.

every morning, you made time to kiss goodbye—no rushed pecks, no distracted waves. real kisses. warm hugs.

during work hours, you sent each other messages—not clingy or constant, but enough.

"you got this today, baby." "thinking of you. breathe. you're doing amazing."

and you had dates again. little ones. ice cream runs. grocery shopping hand in hand. once, he surprised you with a dinner reservation at the place where you had your first anniversary. you wore the same dress. he wore the same nervous smile.

he listened more now. you did too. when he had a hard day, you held space for his words, even when they didn’t make sense. he did the same for you.

then came saturday.

you were curled up together on the couch, the soft hum of a movie filling the room. your legs rested over his, your head on his shoulder, his arm draped over you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you were watching some quiet, artsy film about love and time. at one point, the couple on screen found out they were expecting a baby.

there was a quiet pause between you and beomgyu as the characters celebrated on screen.

his hand, which had been stroking your arm absentmindedly, suddenly stilled.

"i want that," he said softly, eyes still on the screen.

you turned slightly, your breath catching.

"what?"

he looked at you now, his voice steady but vulnerable.

"a family. with you." he swallowed, his hand reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear.

"i want messy mornings and toys all over the living room. i want little feet running to our bed at midnight. i want to see you holding our child, laughing in the kitchen while i burn toast trying to help."

he laughed softly, but there was a crack in his voice, a shimmer in his eyes.

"i want everything with you. the chaos, the tiredness, the joy. i want to build that life with you, if... if you're ready."

you stared at him, your chest swelling so full it almost hurt.

"i do want it," you whispered. "i want it with you. only with you."

his lips met yours then, slow and deep, filled with silent promises. and as you lay there together, under the soft glow of the tv, you knew—this was the beginning of a new chapter.

you and beomgyu.

the home you rebuilt.

the love that refused to die.

and soon… a family born from it.

forever didn’t feel like a fantasy anymore.

it felt like the quiet beating of two hearts—pressed close, full of hope, writing a future one kiss at a time.

[dadupbuck]

April bookmarks wrap up!

First post with the new username! (Used to be evanbuckleyrecs)

Here are all the 911 fics I bookmarked in April :) the order is from most recently read to the beginning of the month

If you're the author or any of these fics, let me know and I'll add a tag :) however tumblr keeps removing tags in my posts randomly

WARNING: some summaries may have spoilers for 8b. In the 'tag' part I'm putting when fics take place or were published. If you're avoiding spoilers, check that before reading the summary!

Don't let the tide rush over and wash us away by writerforlife

Buddie, Buddie & Chris | rated M | 23,8K | 3 chapters | 2022, post s5 | angst, buck breakdown, ptsd, happy ending

* TW frequent mention of canon past suicide attempt (Maddie) and suicidal thoughts

Buck develops a relationship with the ocean, avoids talking about the day Eddie was shot, realizes he might be in love, and drives.

Order may vary.

(a fic for the "Buck is going to break all the way down in season 6" truthers)

Can't leave me alone by 42hrb

Buddie | rated E | 3,3k | roommates, minor spoilers until 8x14, first time, accidental voyeurism, fluff and smut |

“There wasn’t a line at the DMV, it was a miracle. I —” The words die on Eddie’s lips as he takes in the scene in front of him, his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open, a flush spreads over his cheeks.

Buck must look a fucking sight and he knows it, his face hot with a mix of shame and arousal. He can’t look at Eddie, not when he’s still got a fucking dildo buried in his ass. Not when his cock is fucking leaking against his stomach. Not when looking at Eddie might be what sends him tipping over the edge, so Buck carefully looks at the wall behind him instead. “Y-you’re not supposed to be home yet."

“The DMV didn’t have a line,” Eddie says again, taking a step into the room instead of turning around like Buck is expecting him too. If Eddie leaves Buck can take the dildo out of his ass and they can maybe pretend this never happened, or at the very least ignore it for 6 to 12 months, until it’s funny to joke about.

Face the burnin' heat by EiraLloyd @unlifeira

Buddie | rated T | 2k | post 8x15 | funeral, tommy kinard bashing, pre-relationship Buddie, grief/mourning

* Warning: main character death

At Bobby's funeral, Buck witnesses Eddie punching Tommy right after Tommy says something particularly hurtful. Buck knows there has to be more to this than just anger—and it turns out, he's right.

Forever is the sweetest con by @becausebuckley

Buddie, Buck & Ravi | Rated E | 37,8K | post s8a | marriage of convenience, friends to husbands, practice kissing, sharing a bed, cuddling, wedding rings, family reunions, humor

“Buck,” Eddie says, a small smile curving at the edge of his mouth, “wanna get married? For our honeymoon, we’ll scam your parents out of some money and make Ravi’s accountant do our taxes.”

“Well,” Buck says drily, “that sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, in his very best – meaning very bad – impression of Buck when he gets his hands on a clipboard. “What was that?”

“Yes, Eddie,” Buck says, putting on an air of suffering despite the butterflies making themselves at home in his stomach. Man, whoever Eddie ends up proposing to for realsies is gonna be so lucky. “I’ll marry you.”

or: buck is invited to a family reunion and realises that there's a good chunk of money waiting for him. there’s one issue, though: he has to be married to claim it, and right now, he’s painfully single. it’s a good thing he has such a great best friend in eddie, right?

What a View by maybeamystery

Buddie | rated G | 3k | 2022 | hurt buck, temporary loss of vision, didn't know they were dating, idiots in love, misunderstanding, migraines, holding hands

They’re coming back from a late call for a shift that was supposed to end at two-thirty but didn’t, and Buck has been keeping a close eye on the time. He’s a busy guy with things to do and places to be. One minute he’s glancing at his phone for the two hundredth time in the last thirty minutes, and the next, the whole world goes blurry and out of focus.

I can't believe my eyes (I must be seeing blind) by calvingseason

Buddie | rated T | 5,9k | 2022 | crack treated seriously, gay disaster buck, glasses, getting together, idiots in love

Buck never thought he had this kink. He’s like, pretty convinced he knows everything there is to know about his own likes and dislikes and attractions and whatnot, but this? This fucking weird fantasy that’s playing in his head like he’s the subject of a strange student-teacher love affair? Buck’s going to Google the highest bridge in Los Angeles and jump off. Because it’s fucking glasses that are doing it for him. Glasses.

or, eddie gets glasses. buck is normal about it.

Allergic to love by notetonote

Buddie | rated G | 4,5k | 8x05 Masks | Tommy bashing, bucktommy break up, protective Eddie, hurt Buck, allergic reactions, soft Eddie, fix it fic, oblivious Buck, oblivious Eddie, Eddie takes care of Buck

“What’s going on? Did I miss something, or–” Tommy starts, chuckling lightly.

“Yeah actually, I think you did.” Eddie’s voice carries across the loft, shutting up Tommy immediately. It’s much more accusatory and pointed than before, not a hint of wariness to it. Eddie takes his time as he stalks back over into the open plan kitchen and dining room area, shaking the bottle in front of him as he does.

“Ibuprofen.”

Tommy looks between the bottle and Eddie’s stoic face, still completely clueless. “Yeah? That’s what it says on the label.”

Buck hardly hears Tommy say this to Eddie, the word Ibuprofen echoing around the walls of his mind. Oh, God.

— — —

Or

When Buck wakes up with boils on his face, he calls Eddie to check it out. It is when Eddie finds out that Tommy gave Buck ibuprofen, one of the medications that can trigger Buck’s allergy to naproxen, that hell breaks loose.

Eddie Diaz vs the Buck's Boyfriend Agenda by songbvrd

Buddie | rated M | 23,4k | post s7 | tommy bashing, pining, not actually unrequited love, unhinged Eddie, jealous Eddie, Eddie goes to therapy, gay Eddie, 118 as family

* warning: infidelity (not buck/buddie)

“Asked me if I was the Chinese food delivery guy on my first day.” Chim contributed in a whisper, like he was afraid Buck might wake up and hear. Maybe he felt disloyal admitting it now. It was no secret to anyone paying attention how much Chim loved Buck, even if he often pretended to be exasperated with him.

Hen nodded solemnly. “One of the many people who wouldn’t even acknowledge me when I started.”

It was news to Eddie, and apparently Ravi too, but not Cap, who resolutely stared down at the table in front of him, shaking his head.

“Oh, so he fucking sucks.” Ravi contributed casually, never one to pull punches with his thoughts.

No one responded, but the agreement was in the air.

OR -

Eddie starts gathering information about why no one trusts Tommy. As he grows to hate their relationship more, he learns more about himself and what he wants.

I'll show you mine (will you show me yours?) By @becausebuckley

Buddie | rated E | 5,7k | 2024 | getting together, phone sex, nude photos, dirty talk

“What if... what if he's right, Eddie? What if my nudes really do look weird and everyone’s just been too polite to say anything? Cause, like, I used to send them a lot, you know? Before we met, when I was still Buck 1.0? What if I’ve been sharing really bad pictures with everyone? Shit, what if my dick really does look weird?”

“Buck, your dick doesn’t look weird,” Eddie says.

“See, but here’s the thing, I wouldn’t know,” Buck stresses. “Like, I used to sext with women, you know? I haven’t seen that many hard dicks. Maybe there’s something super wrong with mine, and I’ve gone all my life going ooh, look at me, I call myself Firehose, my dick is so cool and big and stuff, and everyone was just making fun of me behind my back!”

or: when buck feels insecure about his nudes, he asks eddie for help. for 911 kinktober day 27: non-penetrative sex!

I'm Going To Try My Best To Figure It Out For Myself by @aspecbuddie

Buck & Hen, Buddie (background) | post 8x11 | feelings realization (sort of), pre relationship Buddie, Buck loves Eddie

After ten minutes of silence, ten minutes of thinking about the thing he’s trying not to think about, Buck cracks.

“Anyone ever think you were in love with Athena?”

He’s still staring straight ahead, but in his peripheral, he sees Hen’s head jerk in his direction.

“What the hell?!”

-

or; Buck talks to Hen after that conversation with Tommy

He's Got Stars In His Eyes by @gaydadeddie

Buddie | rated E | 3,8k | post 8x11 | Eddie's silver star, freak4freak buddie, jealousy, possessive Eddie, smut, religious guilt

Eddie wants Buck to wear his Silver Star, which would be cool and normal, except Eddie's a freak.

I touch myself, I dream by Excalipurr

Buddie | rated E | 28k | 3 Chapters | post 8x08 | freak4freak Buddie, Eddie moves to Texas, pining Eddie, Jealous Eddie, texting, possessive Eddie, Eddie needs a hug, character study, light angst, unhinged Eddie, catholic guilt, religious trauma, first kiss

The text he receives is simple.

you took my LAFD t-shirt, man

Hm

Are you sure?

pretty sure

Attached there is a picture. In it, Buck stands in front of his bathroom mirror with a t-shirt two sizes too small, his birthmark eyebrow raised in an I told you so expression. Eddie is oddly impressed by the size of Buck’s biceps and chest straining hard against the frail-looking material, like he’s about to burst out of it. And he’s also a little mesmerized by the way the fabric fails to fully cover the bottom area of his waist, his stomach just slightly peeking out, happy trail going down like an invitation.

or: Eddie accidentally takes Buck's LAFD t-shirt to El Paso.

Rodeo queen by okanus

Buddie | rated E | 15,6k | 2024 | sexual tension, flirting, first kiss, halloween, cowboy hats, getting together, first time, possessive eddie

“What’s the saying again? Save a horse…hm, y’know, I don't quite remember the rest of it.” Eddie can’t help the smile curving up the corner of his mouth.

“You’re an asshole,” Buck says, scowling. The tips of his ears are pink.

“Come on, Buck,” Eddie murmurs, something white-hot and hungry snaking through him at Buck’s faltering gaze, at the way Buck reaches up to tug at his suit collar. “Save a horse…I know you can do it.”

“Ride a cowboy,” Buck says finally, his voice husky like Eddie’s never heard it before.

Sunday morning, got me looking crazy by @lovesicktaxi

Buddie | rated G | 10,9k | pre s8x06 | tommy bashing, pre-relationship Buddie, getting together, sweet Eddie, oblivious Buck, feelings realization, crack, ADHD Buck, good sibling Maddie, soft Buddie, overwhelmed Buck

Buck spirals on a Sunday morning over his boyfriend, his best friend, a Tiktok, and what it means to show up for others.

And his laundry is still not dry.

Paint on your face by paleredheadinascifi

Buddie | rated T | 4,9k | AU, getting together, fluff, different first meeting, adorable Chris, teacher Buck, meet cute

“Yeah. Craziest thing. My kid comes home a few weeks ago with a birthmark on his eyebrow. Looks suspiciously like a smudge of paint, but he assures me it’s a birthmark.”

“Ah,” Buck cringes. "Mr Diaz - -"

"Eddie."

Or, if you ask Christopher, that smudge on his eyebrow is a birthmark. If you ask Eddie, his kid won't stop painting on his face and he has no idea why.

Wanna see your body on mine (and collide) by @becausebuckley

Buddie | Rated E | 4,6k | first time, established relationship, top eddie, bottom buck

They fit perfectly together, Buck can’t help but think. It’s like they’re two puzzle pieces that have been reunited, like they were always meant to collide like this.

or: buddie sleep together for the first time. for the 911 kinktober prompt first time!

Promises to Keep by @catmomjudy

Buddie, Eddie & Bobby, Eddie & Chris | rated T | 4,6k | post 8x15 | main character death, pre relationship Buddie, Bobby ships Buddie

* Warning: main character death

Eddie gets a strange and disturbing text, followed by a phone call from a worrying source.

And through it all, he realizes that being a man means more than sucking it up in a sucky house in sucky El Paso.

Because he made a promise, and he's going to keep it.

All the quiet nights by @becausebuckley

Buddie | rated T | 3,8k | mild hurt/comfort, sharing a bed, bathing/washing, fluff, getting together, forehead kissing, cuddling, eddie takes care of buck, hair washing

“You don’t have to do that,” Buck says, averting his eyes as Eddie’s fingers begin working at his belt. “It’s just my wrist.”

“Just- just let me take care of you,” Eddie says. It’s a question, but it comes out somewhere between a statement and a plea. “Please.”

or: eddie takes care of buck.

Stay Right Here (Life's Not the Same Without You) by amACEinglyordinary

Buddie | rated G | 2,2k | post 8a | getting together, mutual pining, fluff, cuddling, couch theory

Eddie and Chris come back home from Texas. Buck is slightly panicking about the discovery of his feelings for Eddie. Eddie is suspiciously tactile, even for him. Chris is used to their antics.

My wishes come true (whenever I'm with you) by @becausebuckley

Buddie | rated T | 3,6k | sharing a bed, getting together, cuddling, first kiss

“Yeah, I get that,” he says softly. “It’s been a while for me too. But it’s kind of nice, isn’t it? Having someone there?”

“It is,” Eddie says. “I- I always liked that. It feels safer.”

“I feel safer, too.”

or: buck and eddie have to share a bed in a hotel. for flufftober day 31, make a wish!

I'll give you my clothes (because you already have my heart) by @becausebuckley

Buddie | rated T | 5,5k | fluff, 5+1, sharing clothes, first kiss

“Sure thing, bud,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “Till then, put this on, will you?”

He lobs a bundle of fabric at Buck. Buck scrambles to catch it, then unfolds it to find a blue button-up, the version of their uniform that Eddie usually prefers.

He holds it out in front of him. On the label in the back of the neck, he sees Diaz written in Eddie’s spiky handwriting.

“I figured you wouldn’t have any spares left,” Eddie explains, “and the ones in that pile tend to run smaller, cause B-shift always forgets to do the laundry and we never have any larger sizes left because of them. This should still fit you, I think.”

or: five times buck wears eddie's clothes, and one time he wears his own.

Not so crazy (not tonight) by @becausebuckley

Buddie | rated T | 1,7k | post 8x11 | feelings realization, getting together, phone calls, love confessions

Because of all people, the most likely one to know who Buck is in love with is Eddie himself.

It’s just what they do. Years ago, they’d promised to have each other’s backs, and since then, they’ve been like this. Buck knows Eddie, and Eddie knows Buck, and somewhere along the way, they became BuckandEddie and they haven’t looked back since.

or: buck tells eddie about maddie's question. eddie has some thoughts about it.

Teach me how to dance with you by @becausebuckley

Buddie | Rated M | 5,2k | slow dancing, getting together, horny Buck, first kiss, competent Eddie, fluff and humor, oblivious Buck

“Okay, come here,” Eddie says, dropping the sponge and dish he was cleaning into the soapy water with a splash. He’s tugging on Buck’s elbow, then, the wetness from his fingers seeping into Buck’s clothes and all the way through to his skin.

“Uh, what?” Buck brings out, but he’s helpless to do anything but follow Eddie’s lead and let go of the tea towel.

“We’re dancing,” Eddie says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Or: Eddie teaches Buck to dance.

Keeping it quiet by @bellabrady

Buddie | rated G | 3,2k | love confessions, getting together, humor, idiots in love, first kiss

He can’t handle standing next to Eddie for however long it takes to clean the engine, he just can’t. He’s going to lose it. And he’s going to lose Eddie, too, because he’ll inevitably either kiss him or confess his undying love. He can’t even guarantee he won’t just drop down on one knee and propose.

“Oh, yeah, I’ll be right there, Bobby!” Buck yells before dropping his rag into the bucket and taking off towards the loft, leaving Eddie standing there dumbfounded.

“Buck, no one was calling for you!” he shouts, exasperated. Buck ignores him and bounds up the stairs.

Or: Buck realizes he's in love with Eddie shortly before a 24 hour shift. Out of fear of accidentally confessing his love, Buck tries to avoid him at all costs. If only Eddie wasn't so derermined to talk to him.

Bring me to your altar (drop me to my knees) by justhockey

Buddie | rated E | 5,5k | s8 | jealous Eddie, possessive Eddie, love confessions, first kiss, first time, fluff and smut, getting together, friends to lovers, religious imagery and symbolism

Eddie takes a breath, and he pushes down on Buck’s shoulders until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Then Eddie drops to his knees between Buck’s thighs, like he’s ready to pray.

Back in El Paso, Eddie got used to Sunday mornings in church. It was surprisingly easy to fall back into the rhythm of it, even though Eddie has been beating out of sync for his entire life. He still doesn’t believe - not in god, or sin, or hell. He does believe in heaven, though. Thinks he’s found it right here, in Buck.

Because nothing - no god, or church, or prayer - has ever felt as holy as this.

His Father(s) by xompeii

Eddie & Chris | rated G | 1,3k | post 8x12 | family, fluff, coda, feelings realization, Chris has 2 dads

“I’m sorry, so you’re saying Chris has two fathers?” The redheaded woman from earlier says. It’s not in a bad way, it’s more confused than anything else.

“No, I’m his father. Ramon is his grandfather,” Eddie is pretty calm about this. Somehow he still feels the need to add, “There would be nothing wrong if he did, but it’s just me.”

Or - After Chris and Eddie talk at the Chess Tournament, they keep talking.

Chasing butterflies by rizcriz

Buddie | rated T | 5,7k | post 8a | feelings realization, Eddie in El Paso, coming out

How long have you been in love with her?

Is sitting in the air as they laugh, turning to each other like they’ve done something, and dropping the subject entirely in favor of grilling Grant on his upcoming wedding.

How long have you been in love with her?

Is sitting in the air as he blindly grabs for his beer, dragging it to his mouth and downing what’s left in the bottle in one desperate gulp.

How long have you been in love with her?

Is rewording itself, reworking itself, translating itself until it fits;

How long have you been in love with him?

--

Or, Eddie's in El Paso and suddenly everything makes sense.

Wherever you go, that's where I am by spiritsontheroof

Buddie | rated T | 4,7k | post 8x13/8x14 (alternate 8x15) | getting together, mutual pining, holding hands, moving in together, tenderness, first kiss, sharing a bed, non sexual intimacy

Ravi follows Buck’s line of sight and jerks his head in Hen and Karen’s direction. “You ever wish you had that?”

“Had what?” Buck asks. “A wife?”

“Yeah, I guess. Or,” Ravi shrugs, twisting the shock blanket he’s supposed to be wrapped in between his hands. “Just someone to go home to.”

Buck rubs at his sternum as a sudden sharp pain shoots through it. “Yeah."

--

OR, Buck gets someone to go home to.

You're taking me out of the ordinary by wafflesofdoom

Buddie | rated G | 1,8k | post 8x13 | first kiss, getting together

“Ballroom kind of requires a partner,” Eddie pointed out, and for a second, his words hung heavy in the air between them, a metaphor so heavy-handed that it almost made Eddie cringe – he’d gone so long, without a partner, a real one who was all in, and then he’d met Buck, and he’d found the perfect partner, in the other man.

Buck gestured vaguely at himself. “I’ll be your partner.”

Your hands, my hips by farfromthstars

Buddie | rated E | 1,6k | post 8x12 | feelings realization, Introspection, phone calls, pre relationship Buddie

Eddie draws in a sharp breath and, all of a sudden, realizes that he’s hard, or getting there at least. He glances at his phone screen again, at Buck’s peaceful face, still fast asleep, and hits the red button in a panicked daze.

He must’ve gotten his wires crossed somehow, maybe he dreamt something or he’s just– pent up, or whatever, and then the thought of Buck’s chest, and his thighs–

He must’ve gotten his wires crossed somehow, maybe he dreamt something or he’s just– pent up, or whatever, and then the thought of Buck’s chest, and his thighs–

~

eddie wakes up with buck still on facetime. he's not normal about it.

Ooff that was long 😅 it took me hours to make this post

[foldedchip]

Lackadaisy comic spoilers and descriptions of violent scenes, but for a joke : )

Tracy Butler: so here’s Rocky getting BRUTALLY smashed in the head by a hearse, he’s bleeding in the dirt and going to be left to die, and then his limp body gets dragged to a funeral home and his forehead is stitched up without anesthesia and then he gets driven home by Ivy because he’s severely concussed and possibly has brain damage and she finds out that he’s actually homeless and has nowhere to go because his parents are gone and his extended family can’t stand him for any longer than twenty minutes at a time so she sneaks him into her dorm room where he then proceeds to have a mental breakdown and sob uncontrollably in front of several people before eventually running away and looking out over a bridge to see the smog-infested city and shady life he is trapped in.

Tracy Butler in the very next chapter: all right, now a silly one :3

[moonlightdancer26]

What are some of your favourite snape headcanons?

He tends to avoid alcohol because of his father, and if he did drink it would only be 1-3 glasses. He only ever got blackout drunk twice in his life, the first time was after he found out that Lily died and Sirius betrayed them, the second time was after his breakdown in Grimmauld place.

He visits Malfoy Manor once a week to gossip with Lucius; Narcissa sometimes joins them.

He has tea with Minerva whenever he gets the chance.

He actually needed reading glasses as a teenager, but he invented a spell to fix his eyesight because he would rather die than match with James.

His face tends to get very red whenever he blushes or gets angry, that’s one of the reasons why he kept his hair long. He also has a few scars on his neck and the side of his jaw, which is another reason.

He asked Harry those three questions in his first lesson because one time Slughorn decided to ask fire-questions to the class, and he asked Lily those three questions, to which she answered perfectly. Snape was curious to see if Harry had natural talent like his mother. (Got inspired by a reddit comment)

The only career choice he had ever truly considered was being a Healer, I believe that if he wasn’t a teacher he would’ve 100% been a Healer.

He invented a spell for tying his shoelaces, when asked about it by his Slytherin mates he’d simply say “it’s faster and easier,” but in reality he invented it because his parents never taught him how to tie his shoelaces.

He knows how to cook like 8 super complicated and fancy dishes, but not anything else. He also makes the best soup ever.

Hagrid always got a bit defensive over Harry’s constant judgement of Snape because he always thought of Snape as a pretty alright bloke, even when he was a kid. He judged baby!Snape a bit because he was friends with Lucius and Lucius was an asshole to Hagrid (like father like son), but other than that he thought Snape was alright “compared to other Slytherins.” He was also the only person at Hogwarts who didn’t immediately scold Dumbledore for “hiring a former Death Eater,” unlike the other teachers. (Bonus: in Hogwarts mystery, Flitwick says that the professors tried to make Snape tell Hagrid that they didn’t like his rock cakes, but Snape couldn’t bring himself to do it. Literally the cutest thing ever.)

For around Snape’s first two years of working at Hogwarts, McGonagall would often forget that he was now a professor and no longer one of her students, so whenever she’d spot him patrolling the castle at night she’ll say something along the lines of “MR. SNAPE!! Out of bed, are we?”

When Snape became a professor, he knew all his now-colleagues judged and disliked him for his past and thought he wasn’t fit to teach. So as a means to prove himself worthy, he actively tried to make Slytherin win the House Cup every year. They didn’t win the House Cup in his first or second or third year of teaching, but they won in his fourth (around 1984-1985), and he decided he wanted to start a record. That’s how Slytherin got their streak before the end of PS.

Funnily enough, he disliked Ravenclaws almost as much as Gryffindors. He always thought most of his Ravenclaw students were stuck-up, and even back when he was a student he thought both Ravenclaws and Gryffindors were egotistical (though for different reasons). He thought Hufflepuffs were “too nice” and “fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves” (quoting OoTP!Snape cause why not) but still tolerated them more than Ravenclaws.

As a student whenever he’d get badly hexed or hurt by the Marauders, he’d avoid going to the hospital wing as much as possible (though sometimes when it was really bad Lily would force him to go) and would do extensive research on how to heal himself and used counter-curses. If he got physically hurt (like a cut or a bruise), he’d usually go to Filch instead of the hospital wing, this made them develop a sort-of-friendship, and it’s why Snape went to Filch after he got bitten by Fluffy in PS.

He used to be addicted to cigarettes as a young-adult, and he sometimes smoked when he was overwhelmed by his responsibilities as a teacher and spy. He also invented potions to help deal with everything (sleeping potions, drugs, etc).

He used to always call the Marauders furries as a joke, he’d usually refer to them as something like “Potter and his furries friends,” and more specifically he always thought of Sirius as a “filthy dog” because he hated dogs and always thought of Sirius as a good-for-nothing posh boy who needed someone to be loyal to. So he was very shocked to find out that not only was one of them a werewolf, but they were all unregistered Animagi and Sirius’s Animagus form was a dog.

He has a weakness for blonde women, and long blonde hair in general (we all know why he liked Lucius so much 🌚).

Huge cat person. He’s one of the very few people Mrs. Norris likes.

In the summer of his sixth year, he begged Lucius to teach him proper courtesy and “pureblood manners,” Lucius forced him to fix his posture and taught him how to speak eloquently. That’s one of the reasons why Professor Snape is a lot more controlled than he was in the memories we saw.

His mother died on May 2nd (yes I picked that date on purpose, happy May 2nd btw) 1976, the summer after his fifth year was hell because he not only lost his best friend (Lily) but also because he was stuck in Spinner’s End with just his father. And his father died in 1978, right after Severus graduated.

Eileen was from a Pureblood family with decent money and got disowned because she fell in love with a muggle (Tobias). She was 18 when she got disowned and 19 when she gave birth to Severus. She died at 35. Tobias was a year older than her and was 20 when Severus was born, he died at 38 (I also picked this age on purpose lol).

These are almost all of my headcanons, hope you enjoyed.

[mindlessly-dying]

Now, I don't know if this is a feeling other people have amongst the fandom, but I just wanted to put my 2p in about something. (this has been sat in my drafts for a while, but after this ep, i needed to get this out there)

A personal opinion of mine about 911, is that I wished some of the ep plotlines would go over a couple episodes. Something I really struggle when it comes to the show is that there are these brilliant plotlines that get scrapped way to quickly, then we end up with ones that leaves the fandom feeling a little cheated. We have seen the writers create character arcs and plotlines that last chunks of the season (like sperm donor Buck, Eddie's mental breakdown, Hen's medical school, Doug, Bobby's addiction/past, Wilson family foster arc, and so on).

Hear me out, imagine if Maddie had to spend the next few episodes trying to adjust to not having her voice, while processing the trauma. The doctor in that episode says she would probably not have her voice for a while. The audience has to watch as she struggles with the attack along with the pregnancy and maybe even Chimney being in the lab. The scene where she lost sight of Jee would have been far more impactful of the audience watched Maddie struggling and when Jee goes missing thing of the fucking stomach dropping moment when we believe that there is all hope lost, then shit, she's got her voice and Jee is OK, all is right with the world... then bam... lab arc.

One thing I will die on the hill off, Buck should have struggled with discovering he is a saviour baby, his whole childhood was shattered, his family lied to him... c'mon, I'm not the only one who things that one conversation with his family and a therapy session with his folks is gonna make it all ok. In my opinion, it would have been a little more realistic and more interesting watching him struggle with the weight of it throughout S4, and it comes to it's peak when the factory fire happens. Us as the audience has been watching Buck struggle with having his world completely flipped, in the factory fire we then watch as he pushes past everything. He overcomes his fears and issues, by just being Buck (and it would have been eeeevvvveeeennnn better if he cut off his parents at this point as well, just saying).

So with the funeral episode, it should have been longer, or at least the episode should have been more centred around the characters. The amount of one off episodes that literally add nothing to the show. Now, I understand that this show wasn't created to be streamed, and I've been watching it on and off for years now. I binged it back in 2022, then watching it weekly from then on. I think that if the show played out the plots just a little bit more, it would be a more impactful show, more heart wrenching and just a bit more. There is this little thought in the back of my mind when I watch 9-1-1, its as if they are burning through as many plot points and arcs as they humanly can -- often at the expense of negating previous character developments.

[princess-of-the-corner]

genuine questions: is there something between middle/upper middle and upper class? or is the rich kids like in a tier beyond upper class? if so then what's that tier called?

Okay so this site has a decent breakdown of the different classes.

There's poor/working poor, working class, middle class, upper/managerial class and owning/ruling class

Of the Miracuclass, I think a lot of them still qualify in middle class, maybe the subcategory of 'upper-middle'. Marinette's parents own a single bakery of which they're the only employees. Alya's parents are a chef and a zookeeper. Sabrina's dad is a cop. Mylene's dad is a teacher at the school and an actor on stage. Even if some of these jobs are at fancier institutions, they're still working jobs and not living lavishly.

Chloé, Zoé, Adrien, Felix, Kagami, and possibly Lila are all yeeted up into the owning/ruling class. Their parents don't just own businesses, they own companies. They are global successes. Some are in politics(depending on Lila's moms lmao). The GDVs are clearly Old Money so who knows what their wealth was originally from but their investments keep them wealthy

Nathaniel's family, from his mom's architect job to the rooms of the home we see, seem much more solidly in the upper class than the rest of the kids. I think I'd also qualify Alix in this group as her dad is the curator at the Louvre and apparently seems to have an apartment on-site.

[chronicallylatetotheparty]

@jack-of-heartstrings

Yeah, I dunno man, it's almost like an orphan who's been lied to his entire life, who has literally told his partner that being lied to hurts him over and over and over again is allowed to not forgive her when she does it Again but this time it's abuse apologism.

It's almost like Adrien's trauma isn't about Marinette's fucking feelings and he's allowed to be upset about it.

It isn't like in season 4 the writers broke down Adrien's support network and hinted at an actual conversation about Ladybug taking Chat Noir for granted. Only for him to push down his emotional needs because they just had to write Ladybug having a breakdown in the season finale.

It isn't like season five hinted at Adrien actually learning about his father and the fucking sentimonster nonsense. Only for the writers to write him out of the final battle with his own father because they wanted to write Bugnoire failing to save the universe...

And then committing abuse apologism.

It isn't like the writers are hacks who have literally said that they regurgitate every single story idea they've ever had. Even though that plotline was written almost twenty years ago for a character that doesn't exist anymore.

It's not like I defended this show all the way up to the season four finale because, like a fool, I thought they were actually going to address the plotlines they wrote into their own fucking story. And no "Marinette is sad so Adrien forgives her downplays his emotions" is not addressing their plotlines.

Especially when they've done it every season since 3.

It's almost like it's not about the fucking story.

It's about the fandom (in this case you specifically) rushing to defend some white guy's abuse apologism because he packaged it in a poor little girl who has fifteen friends, loving parents and a supportive boyfriend but Obviously she's all alone because reasons and not because she keeps lying to people and refusing to deal with her shit.

It's almost like an interesting story would be Adrien using his new powers to erase his sentimonster nonsense from Marinette's brain. And Felix and Kagami and Tomoe and Nathalie too while he's at it. And then just ditching. Just leave. Break up with Marinette over text. "Dear John" her.

That's interesting.

(Anyway if me saying "Marinette's friends are allowed to be mad at her" made you feel called out the block button is free.)

Funny how Maripologists only talk about how "all the kids were traumatized by Gabriel" in order to minimize Adrien's trauma/re-center Marinette.

Because if we're going with "all the kids were traumatized" then the logical conclusion is that they ALL deserve to be angry at Marinette for lying to them about the guy that brainwashed them. 😤

[littlefankingdom]

It's kind of annoying (and weird) how DC keeps trying to rewrite how Jason and Bruce met to paint Bruce in a worst light.

Originally, Batman finds Jason stealing the Batmobile's tires, the kid runs away, and Batman finds him. Discovering the kid is homeless, he gives him to the authority and Jason finishes at Ma Gunn's school. Ma Gunn is actually teaching the kids to be gang members, so Jason tells Batman. Together, they win again Ma Gunn, and Bruce takes Jason in because he sees himself in him.

Well, in Nightwing: Year One, they change it for "Batman kidnapped Jason when he found him stealing his tires and forces him to become Robin", with Jason ATTACHED AND GAGGED in the batcave. (I like this comic except for that because wtf)

In Red Hood and The Outlaws (2011), they changed it for "Jason stole drugs from Leslie and Batman was ready to beat and throw a young teen in jail, but Leslie begged him to give him a chance", which again, wtf. Batman beating up a child. Okay.

In Red Hood and The Outlaws (2016), they changed it for "Bruce put Jason in Ma Gunn's school because he couldn't handle him after taking him in". The only good addition they made is "when Batman caught Jason stealing his tires, he bought him food".

I do not understand why they need to make him awful to this 12 years old so bad. What do they want to make it as if Bruce forced that life on Jason but also didn't want to deal with him. Why they cannot let it as it is, with Bruce having fun dealing with this lil shit that stole his tires and being there for him when he needs him later on, until he finally craves and takes Jason home.

And that's why I am so critical on how Batman and Bruce is written in Nightwing and Red Hood stories, because the writers are incapable to make their main character have conflict with Bruce, without changing his character and their story to make him abusive. They need him to be the bad guy of Jason's, and sometimes Dick's, story because they don't know how to make you side and care for their character without making the other side a monster.

[weepingtalecowboy]

Fanfic prompt: wind has the ability to see ghosts right

What if the ghosts were using him to tell people things they are incapable of saying anymore and want to move on or whatever

But it is just all the chain's ghosts telling him cryptic threats and wind relaying them word for word in the worst possible times

Like it is just time sleeping together with Malon having a good restful sleep

When he wakes up walks into the bathroom and then he just sees a something written on his face

“He told me he wants his face back or there will be consequences”

And then he freaks out badly because that sounds familiar

Time didn’t even have the time to understand what just happened to him and if it was a weird hallucination but that man was having the anxiety of his life

Or

Legend finding a note in his bag (he freaks out how someone even managed to put one in there despite the protective charms)

And it just says “It wasn’t your fault that he (never) woke up”

(Marin and legend's Uncle)

And it just gives him horrible anxiety

Or

Wild finding a note on his slate that says “you won’t survive as long as you continue like this”

(Mipha was just particularly annoyed at him that day)

Wild took it as a threat

Or

four got a single word

“Shadow”

Then decided that he is probably cursed

And it just wouldn’t stop because wind is just doing what the ghosts want

The escalation happens when he either slips up and gets caught or if Twilight figures him out because he also can see ghosts

[nyoomingwybie]

Uncle Wheeljack and uncle Bulkhead taught me!

*He burst into laughter when the gun blew up and sent Dragstrip through the wall, falling backwards and kicking his legs out in the air.*

Upon hearing the crash, both of little Wildbreak’s parents came rushing in to see what was going on. Knock Out had his staff in hand while Breakdown transformed his hammer out and his jaw was split in half.

What’s going on in here?!

*rock is thrown through window into your room*

>:0

Hey! That’s not nice!

[rock-omelette]

A look of realization washes over his face, perspective upended—like he was finally seeing Stone in a new light.

"He used to call you sycophant." Tom muttered, as if to himself, and the subconscious use of past tense only made Stone scowl, gripping harder on the reigns. Tom jostles, but pushes through. "He used to call you sycophant, but that wasn't true, was it? You know it wasn't."

What do you know? Stone wanted to snarl. Wanted to scream and punch and maybe kick this audacious imbecile in the nads for assuming, for thinking he could even begin to grasp what he was, what he and Ivo had been to each other—

"Sycophants are in it for something." Wachowski continued, clearly determined to say his piece to it's bitter end. "That's what he thought. That you had an end goal. That he was a medium. But he was wrong-,"

"Bite your fucking tongue, Wachowski-,"

"He was wrong. He wasn't the end goal—he was your purpose. You weren't in it for something, you did it for the love of the game." Wachowski gulped, the implications unspoken. Love for him. "You were never a sycophant. You were a zealot."

You were worse, goes unsaid. You were always worse.

Perhaps he should be flattered, to think that the man has made these decisions in such a short amount of time... But all he feels is balking, terror and rage snowballed into something bitter and leaden in his stomach. Stone pulls the rope forward, and Wachowski winced, stumbling. Stone tugs on his hair, pulling him away. Disgusted.

"There is no-one greater," he hissed. "And nothing worse than the Mad Doctor, do you understand?"

Wachowski swallowed again, saying nothing. He shakes like a prey animal.

He doesn't, of course. Why would he? He's already made up his stupid, tiny, feeble mind, but it is no consequence. Soon he will be dead, and so will his wife, and it will lead that wretched hedgehog right back to him—destroyed, in need of the killing blow. It will be enough, and the Mad Doctor will return. Everything will be as they should be—kneeling at the doctor's feet, where they belong.

It will be enough.

[bucksboobs]

Met-in-the-military EddieTommy that got married as soon as they retired that meet a retired Navy Seal named Evan Buckley (squadmates called him Buck) at a military themed gay bar in WeHo and Buck is completely unaware it’s a gay bar and thought he was just chatting up some fellow soldiers. Eddie and Tommy exchange a look like “we have to have him right?”