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sv3t1ana · 3 months ago

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SYNOPSIS ᯓ Gojo doesn't usually fuck his clients. This was supposed to be a normal massage. But with hands like that and a cock to match... "professional" was never on the table.

PAIRING ᯓ Masseur!Gojo x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ smut MDNI, happy ending massage!, oral (f receiving), size kink?, PIV, spanking, biting/marking, dirty talk, possessiveness if you squint!

WORD COUNT ᯓ 5.3k

You’d driven past the place at least a hundred times.

It’s a stupidly sleek little building tucked perfectly between a Pilates studio and one of those overpriced juice bars. Like the kind with an obnoxiously chic and overly sensual neon sign that says TOUCH. White letters on smoked glass, all minimalist and judgy and expensive.

Every time you passed it you’d scoff.

“They probably charge three hundred fucking dollars just to rub your back and judge your pores.”

You’d even spat out an insult once like the building itself would crumble under the weight of your words, hitting the gas on your way home from work. Said it with the kind of righteous confidence that only comes from truly believing you’d never be that kind of girl. The kind who just… lets someone touch them like that. Oil-slicked and half-naked, moaning on some fake leather table while a stranger pretends it’s “therapeutic.”

Weird, isn’t it?

Definitely not for you.

And yet, here you are.

Saturday morning. Pillow hair, soul cracked like a boiled egg, lying in bed with your phone half on your face as you text your best friend in a fugue state,

you ever feel like your spine is just floating? help

You expected a “same.”

get a massage. i’m serious.

You snort. Riiight, a massage, huh?

You stare at the screen, eyes locked to the message like if you stared long enough it’d dial itself.

No amount of sarcasm or dignity can fix the way your shoulders feel like cement. Or the way you haven’t slept properly in weeks. Or the way your boss sent a “quick favor” email at precisely 11:48 PM last night, which you answered because your spine is already jelly and your will to live has already been transferred to a spreadsheet.

So… yeah.

Maybe you are that girl.

The bell attached to the door jingled as you step into the spa, and this is where you immediately felt out of place. The air smelled like eucalyptus and tears of the rich. The lighting was soft, flutey music passing through one ear and out the other, the woman at reception desk with the kind of smooth and poreless skin someone had when they bathed in rosewater.

You step up, feigning confidence like you hadn’t just Googled “what happens at a massage” just an hour ago.

“Hi, uh… I’d like to get a massage?”

She looked up from her computer with a smile too serene to be trusted. “Of course, what kind were you thinking? We offer Swedish, Thai, deep tissue, shiatsu, hot stone, aromatherapy-”

You nod slowly, brain buffering like YouTube trying to stream Paul vs. Tyson. Swedish? Do you get buttered up and rolled around like an IKEA meatball? You can’t ask that. You’d already committed the biggest crime by pretending you belonged here.

“Deep tissue,” you said, like you knew what the hell that meant.

She gave you a polite nod, tapping away on her keyboard. “Great choice. One of our more intense options. How long would you like the session? Sixty or ninety minutes?”

“Um… sixty’s good,” which is actually code for: I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m more scared of farting if you press too hard on my spine.

“Perfect,” she chirped. “The massage therapist will discuss pricing with you. You can take a seat, they’ll call you back shortly.”

You stepped aside, sitting on the impossibly soft couch in a sack of second-guessing. Of course there was a candle named something you can’t pronounce. And of course there’s a small framed sign on the coffee table reading: Relaxation is a journey, not a destination.

Just as you begin contemplating how to fake an emergency bolt, an intrusive thought crossing your mind to stand up and scream that you had a fucking bomb, a calm voice called your name.

You stood up, maybe way too quickly, meeting the eyes of a woman smiling at you with a clipboard in hand.

Thank god. A woman. The anxiety deflated from your shoulders. You didn’t really consider the possibility of a male masseuse until now, but the idea of some beefcake oiled up and kneading your thigh was not something you emotionally prepared for.

“This way,” she gestured for you to follow her down a hallway lined with softly glowing wall sconces and the sound of babbling water. You’d never felt so simultaneously underdressed and overscheduled.

She opened a door and motioned you inside. “You can undress to your comfort level and lie down under the towel, face down. I’ll let your massage therapist know you’re ready.”

“Towel?” you echo, glancing around. On the table sat a singular, small, pathetic white towel. It looked like something you’d pat a cat dry with, and you didn’t know if you expected a beach towel or a blanket.

Still, you nodded like a champ.

There you stood, alone after she exited and shut the door behind her. Unsure of how much was too much as you undressed. Were you supposed to keep your underwear on? Take it off? Would that be weird? Shit, what was the social etiquette here? It felt wrong to Google it, like the masseuse would walk in on you hunched over your phone naked like a caveman discovering the world wide web for the first time.

Eventually, you compromised by only keeping your underwear on and sliding under the towel, if you can even call it that. It barely covered your ass, and if you breathed wrong a cheek was gonna peek.

You lie face down, pressing your face into the weird little donut hole in the massage table. Every attempt at relaxation was a fail, your body as stiff as a mannequin.

The door creaked open, a voice drifted through the air all too low and smooth, way too sexy for this situation.

“Good evening,” he said.

Wait.

Waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait.

You lift your head just a fraction, seeing a tall man stepping into the dimly lit room. White uniform shirt rolled to the elbows. Forearms like Greek sculpture. Messy white hair. A face so hot you swore you could hear angels filing HR complaints. His eyes were icy, meeting yours and curved with a smile.

“I’ll be your masseur tonight,” he said. “Name’s Satoru. Just let me know if anything feels uncomfortable.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool,” you say, voice cracking.

He chuckled softly, washing his hands in the corner, the sound of running water far too sensual. You press your face back into the donut, trying not to internally implode.

You asked for this, your brain whispered.

You chose deep tissue, whatever that meant.

You hear the flick of a small bottle opening. Something shifts behind you, the scent of cedarwood and vanilla blooming through the room like a secret. A soft, wet sound followed, and then-

Drip.

Oil hit the small of your back first. Warm, silky. You twitched without meaning to.

“Sorry,” his voice came playful and low, like he wasn’t sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, only letting out a small squeak of laughter.

Then came his hands.

Large, warm, firm. Gentle as they pressed into your shoulders, thumbs digging slow, practiced circles into the knots near your spine. You can’t help the exhale escaping your lips, something between a sigh and a sound you’d only make in bed.

“This your first massage?” he asks, and damn him. Even his voice sounded like a smirk.

You coughed. “That obvious?”

“Just a bit,” he teased, hands now kneading into the ridge between your neck and shoulder. “You’re stiff. Tense.”

You laugh nervously. “It’s just work stuff. Desk job.”

“Hm,” he hummed like he already knew. Like he could read it in your body the moment his hands touched you. “I’ll start at your shoulders and work my way down. We’ll see if we can get you loosened up.”

You made another strangled sound of agreement in response, biting your lip.

Every stroke of his palm dragged warm oil over your skin, spreading heat along your back, down your spine. The pads of his thumbs pressed into the muscles beside your shoulder blades, firm but slow. It wasn’t just good, but shamefully so. Soothing, deep. Every time his thumbs pressed in, you felt your breath catch in your throat.

Focus, you told yourself. This is a professional, he does this all the time. And you’re not special, just some towel-clad client on a table meant for meat tenderizing.

But gods, his hands.

They were confident, skilled, moving in ways like they had the heaven’s permission to touch you. Maybe they did, each stroke leaving your skin burning in its wake. Your hips shifted slightly. Not on purpose. Well, maybe it was on purpose. You hated yourself for it.

He hadn’t said anything for a while, the room quiet aside from the ambient spa music and your stupid heartbeat echoing in your ears, your heart trying to crawl its way out from your ribcage. You focused on the feeling, the press of his digits into your shoulder. On the long drag of his hands gliding down, down, oil-slick and hot against your spine.

Shit, your brain was melting.

You felt his hands move again, slower now, gliding at your middle back. You couldn’t help but wonder if the towel slipped, didn’t dare look. You just stayed still, very still, praying for dignity while also very much wishing he’d go lower. His thumbs pushed into the small of your back, just on either side of your spine, and you exhaled, loudly.

You immediately regretted it. But he didn’t say anything. Just chuckled softly, barely a sound, and pressed deeper.

Gojo had given thousands of massages before. Hell, he’d worked on celebrities, models, athletes, all kinds of bodies sculpted and polished and worshiped. But this one? You? You weren’t some glammed-up goddess or an over-confident regular. You were shy, uncertain, nervous in the sweetest way, biting your lip like it’d save your soul.

And when he asked what was hurting, where it ached, you’d mentioned work like it explained everything.

He knew exactly what you needed.

His thumbs dragged slow over the curve of your back. You shifted slightly under him, just the tiniest movement, but not from pain. From heat. From something much, much lower. Gojo felt it, the tremor running through your muscles like a secret. The towel was still clinging to your hips, just barely, and he let his hands dip lower, enough to brush the top curve of your ass to see if you’d flinch.

And you didn’t.

Fuck.

He was breaking rules. His own rules. He didn’t do this. Never had. Not once. Not even with the flirty clients or the ones that offered more.

But then again, none of them were you.

Your skin was warm beneath his palms, your breath hitched in a rhythm that wasn’t just relaxation. He could hear it, feel it. And when his fingers barely slipped under the hem of that towel, just to knead the tight muscle at the base of your spine, he felt you tense.

Not with fear, but want.

He pressed deeper, just enough to test. And he almost groaned aloud when your hips lifted. As if it was an accident. But he knew better.

He loved the way you were sensitive for him, dragging his thumbs along the edge of the towel, fingertips brushing your perceptive skin that made his cock twitch.

He was throbbing against the zipper of his pants. He needed to stop.

But he wasn’t going to stop.

“First session’s free, by the way,” he murmured, just above your ear, his salacious tone a blessing to your ears. “House special.”

You made another soft sound and Gojo had to bite his cheek just to stop a deep groan threatening its way out from his lungs.

You thought you were in the clear when his hands left your back. For a moment, you considered breathing again. But then-

“Gonna move to your legs now,” he said, voice smooth and casual. “Starting from your feet.”

You couldn’t find it in you to protest. Your feet. The one part of your body that rejected human contact like a toddler would broccoli.

You tensed as he lifted your foot gentle, resting your ankle against a bolster. You took this opportunity to look. And he looked way too comfortable, crouched near your calves, rolling his sleeves up even more, his forearms, fuck, the veins, and warming more oil in his hands.

The first touch was light, gliding his fingers over your heel, your arch-

You flinched.

“Oh?” he laughed, glancing up. “Ticklish?”

You wanted to crawl inside the nearest candle holder and die.

“Maybe a little,” you mumbled, voice muffled.

“Noted,” he chuckled. “I’ll be gentle.”

And if Gojo Satoru wasn’t a liar before, he was now.

Because his thumbs rolled firm circles into your arches, sliding up the curve of your foot, down each toe like he fucking knew. You twitched again when he hit that spot near the ball of your foot.

He didn’t even pretend not to notice.

“Aw, you’re trying not to laugh.” His voice was warm. “Cute.”

You exhaled like a balloon deflating, face hot. “You’re evil.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, slowly dragging his palm up your sole to your ankle. “That’s one way to thank me.”

He didn’t linger much longer there, probably for your dignity which was already on life support, before he moved up, kneading your calf in strong, slow strokes. His hands wrapped around the muscle with confident pressure, and oh, it felt good.

All thoughts of embarrassment evaporating the moment his thumbs began sliding up your calf, massaging deep into the tissue. His touch slowed as he moved higher, now smoothing hot oil into the back of your knee.

Then he moved to your other leg. Same path. Foot, ankle, calf. All familiar but different. Like he was trying to memorize you. And this time his hands went slower, savoring the goosebumps prickling your skin as his hands moved higher, thumbs digging deeper. And when he reached the back of your thigh, right where the towel barely covered, you felt it.

The hesitation. The pause. The line of professionalism being toed.

And then crossed.

His hands never stopped moving, but his thumbs dragged slower, brushing up the back of your thigh and letting his touch linger along the soft skin there. His touch was light, too light to be considered a deep tissue massage.

“Still doing okay?” he asked, voice low.

You could only nod.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re very responsive.”

Was this normal massage talk?

No, it couldn’t be. But you didn’t dare respond, didn’t want to stop him, even as your breath hitched and thighs threatened to instinctively press together.

Gojo’s hands stayed high on your thighs. One thumb circled the outside of your thigh.

“You’ve got tension here too,” he remarked, and this time, it wasn’t professional at all.

Your hips jolted.

“Sensitive?” he asked, almost a whisper.

You wanted to say something, maybe yes, maybe God, please don’t stop, but all that came out was a hum, shaky as his fingers gripped your thigh tighter.

“Don’t worry,” his voice silk-soft and soaked in pure heat. “I’ll take care of it.”

You didn’t even know he shifted until his voice came too close to your ear, just a low murmur.

“I’m gonna remove the towel now. That okay?”

You’re too far gone, just nodding.

“Need you to say it for me,” his voice is gentle.

“Yes,” you swallow, voice barely above a whisper.

He grips the towel, slow as sin, dragging it off your spine and letting it peel off you like he’s unwrapping something expensive. His fingers graze, not enough to claim but just enough to tease. You’re face-down, so you don’t see it. But he’s squinting, biting back a groan, cock already stirring and probably dripping.

He oils up again, slick and warm, spreading his palms across your ass with expert precision.

“Just breathe. This’ll help with tension in your glutes.”

Glutes, he says it like a medical term. You almost believe he’s just being good at his job, except his hands are kneading deeper, practically stroking the plushy fat of your ass.

His hips subtly press against the table, trying to relieve the throb without making a sound. His jaw is slack, eyes hooded, and he’s already sweating. He’s circling your ass with the heel of his palm, eyed glued to were your thighs part ever-so-slightly, revealing the slightest sliver of wet lace. His mouth waters.

His thumbs brush the hem of your panties, it’s innocent at first. But then he does it again, lingering.

You can almost feel the air shift.

Something about the way he touches you makes your skin buzz. He hasn’t said anything… too off yet, but the drag of his fingers along your thighs, the brush against the edge of your panties, you’re beginning to think it’s not exactly on the menu at most spas.

“Gonna take these off too. Helps me reach deeper tissue,” his finger hooks just teasingly into the hem at your hips.

You know it’s a lie. It has to be. But you nod.

And again, he waits.

“Say it, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you exhale, heartbeat in your ears.

Then he hooks only his thumbs into your panties, slow, like it’s a favor. You lift your hips slightly so he can pull them down, and he takes his time. His thumbs caress you as he drags them down to your knees, ankles, then off completely.

And now you’re bare. Naked. Exposed under his hands and eyes, no doubt dripping from tension and need alone.

The only sound in the room is the soft roll of incense smoke, faint music, and the slick shhhhhkkk of oil between his palms to start again, skin to skin.

He shifts, thumbs dipping lower and palms kneading the tops of your thighs. It’s almost too much, you want to move, clench your legs shut, but you don’t. You stay soft, pliant, open.

And he watches. Every flutter of your muscles. Every twitch. The faintest glisten where your thighs part.

This was no longer routine.

So wet already. You poor thing probably didn’t even mean to be.

He watches your hips shift when he gets close, the way your toes twitch as his thumbs drag sinfully along your inner thighs. It’s like you’re desperate and embarrassed all at once. And yet, you obeyed him. And he loved every second of it.

You’re so pure, so sweet, so filthy for him. Not a single complaint. No hesitation.

Glutes soft and flushed from the heat of his palms. Inner thighs slicked with oil. Breathing shallow and shaky. And his favorite part, your slit tucked between trembling legs, glistening with more than just oil.

He shifts again, subtly dragging his cock against the edge of the massage table. Hard, throbbing, and unforgiving.

“You’re responding really well,” he murmurs, the heel of his palms pushing into your inner thighs enough to part you only so he can see more.

And you’re going insane.

His hands on your thighs, voice in your ear. Every pass of his palms leaving your nerves sparking, and it’s taking everything in you not to freely moan when his knuckles drag just too close.

When your legs twitch again, of course he notices. “Don’t worry. You’re doing great. Just let me take care of you.”

But then his sinful thumbs sweep higher. Still outside, not touching where you need him most. But close. So, so close. And you can’t help the gasp escaping you.

And that’s when he finally brushes his fingers along your folds, light, feather-soft, as if he’s checking something.

Your whole body jerks. His voice lowers a few octaves.

“You’re soaked.”

A beat of silence.

“Want me to keep going?”

Again, you nod.

“Words, sweetheart.

You swallow, face burning and contorting where it’s nestled in the headrest. “Yes… please.”

“Good girl,” his chuckle is low and so smug.

You’re so responsive for him, every time his fingers tease your slick little slit, your thighs tremble like they’re fighting not to squeeze shut.

You don’t even realize the slightest rock of your hips, silently begging for more like you’re chasing his fingers.

He palms your ass again, spreading you open as he traces a single digit up and down. Folds puffy and hot, dripping onto the table, clit twitching like it knows what’s coming.

“You said this was your first massage, right?” he says, dragging a single finger deeper between your folds. “But you’re begging for attention.”

Then his thumb gently presses against your clit, unmoving but giving you the pressure you oh so desperately needed.

“Think you might’ve been made for this.”

You can’t breathe, can’t think. All you know is his hands. The way they press into you, spreading your arousal and oil around as if it’s a divine ritual. The way his thumb circles your clit painstakingly slow, so patient.

You mewl, too far gone to be ashamed.

“Want the full package?” his question come velvet-smooth.

You blink, dazed. “…The what?”

His thumb pressed in just a little harder, your body tensing. “Y’know, the extra. Let me take care of everything.”

“Y-yeah…” your voice is barely audible, but it’s all he needs.

He smiles, the thick curl of anticipation mixing with the burning incense in the air, winding your spine as he murmurs your new nickname again:

“Good girl.”

It’s like this was always going to happen. Like he’s done this a hundred times before and you were just next in line, all dripping wet and none the wiser.

Then he’s palming you again, hands oiled with a fresh squirt as both hands slide over your skin. It’d be professional if it wasn’t for the way his thumbs spread you once again.

It’d be professional didn’t brush directly over your soaked folds, a low growl he lets out, low and restrained when he sees your cunt pulse for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging two fingers through your slick.

Then he dips two fingers inside you, slow and filthy as he immediately curls them right into that soft spot between your ridges that has you gasping into the table padding.

“God, you’re tight. Gonna have to open you up first, yeah?”

It’s as if it’s still part of the massage.

He fucks you slow with his fingers, his free hand moving to move ‘round and ‘round against your clit with his thumb. And fuck, he’s too skilled. Every filthy, wet stroke of his fingers has you whimpering, any semblance of professionalism lost by the sound of your whispers.

“So responsive,” he mutters almost to himself. “You’ll do anything I ask, won’t you?”

Then-

Smack.

Your body jolts, a sharp sting across your ass, the crack echoing through the room.

“Mm,” he hums, smoothing the reddened spot of his handprint like he’s checking the quality of his own work. “Pretty thing makes such pretty sounds.”

Another smack. You gasp.

“Flip over for me.”

His tone is easy, casual like he’s asking you to flip a page in a magazine. Your legs move before you, body fully glistening with oil and anticipation.

His face looks almost desperate. Sweat at his temples, white lashes fluttering over hooded eyes at burn. His lips are parted, flushed, bitten like he's been holding back from devouring you whole.

He's no longer the calm masseur from before, but a man on the edge of losing it.

Every inch of him thrumming with want, you can see it in the way his jaw flexes, the slight tremble in his fingers at his sides. His gaze drops between your legs, staying there like he's starving.

He wants this, wants you just as badly. Maybe worse.

And he sees you. Laid out like an offering, tits soft and heaving, thighs glistening, cunt spread and twitching, begging for his attention.

He lets out a low, heavy breath. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Then his hands are tracing down your thighs, hooking under your knees just to bring them to your chest.

And he goes in, no teasing or warning, just his hands spreading you wide, full mouth-to-pussy action.

His tongue slides over your clit like he’s starving. Moaning into you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. It’s filthy, loud, wet, feral.

He laps at you like he wants to crawl into your skin and live there. His lips lock around your clit, tongue flicking fast and relentless, fingers digging into you.

Your hips buck instinctively. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers clutching his silvery strands as your legs twitch, toes curl.

He loves it. The desperate little grind of your hips, the wrecked moan slipping from your throat, the way you push his face impossibly deeper.

So he doubles down, dragging his tongue lower and fucking it into your hole with lewd precision, then pulls back just to suck at your clit like it’ll grant him immortality.

“You taste like heaven,” he groans, lost in a daze himself. “Sweet little thing, gonna cum all over my mouth, huh? So fucking wet. Bet you’ve been thinking about this.”

He flattens his tongue, grinding it against your clit, and you cry out, entire body jerking, thighs clenching around his head. But he doesn’t stop, if anything only groans, grinding his hips into the table like he’s getting off just on your taste.

You’re soaked. Senseless. A carnal desire to soak his face in your arousal.

And when you gasp his name, fingers tugging at his locks, body trembling-

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Cum for me, baby.”

You shatter. Completely. Fully. Back arching from the table, breath punched from your lungs, cunt clenching so hard around nothing it’s fucking cruel. He just stays there, tongue flicking, dragging out every last pulse of your orgasm until your legs go numb.

Your thighs are trembling around him, your cunt a swollen, slick mess, still twitching with aftershocks. You’re still moaning, fucked-out and blissed as he presses kisses to your inner thigh.

Fuck. He thinks you look perfect like this. Made to be ruined for him.

And he’s done being patient.

So he stands, unzipping his pants. His cock springs free, red, leaking, painfully hard. And shit, he’s big. A slight upward curve, a thick vein running along his thick, long length.

“Up,” he says, voice coaxing like he’s asking you to breathe.

Your legs wobble as you push yourself off the table, only for his hands to grip your waist and bend you right back over it. Your bare chest pressed to the cushiony surface, cheek against the towel.

“There you go,” he drags the thick head of his throbbing cock through your folds, smearing your slick across your lower lips and on his tip until it could drip off. “Gotta get all that tension out, yeah? Let me work those knots a little deeper.”

You walked in here all shy and tense, even spending twenty minutes willing yourself to open your car door. New client, first massage, all stiff shoulders and tight posture. Said your job had you aching. Said you needed relief.

And the first time he saw you, big eyes, nervous smile, a little stutter from your lips when he first touched your shoulders.

He knew exactly what you needed.

“First massage,” he breathes, lining his tip to your entrance.

Then he pushed in. Deep.

You choke on a moan. He’s so thick, splitting you open inch by inch, your walls struggling and stretching to take him. His hands dig into your waist, still warm with oil, just holding you savoring the moment he finally sinks all the way in.

“Fuck,” he groans, head tipping back. “That’s it- just like that- you were made for this.”

He pulls back, only until just the tip lay past your entrance, before slamming back in. And you jerk, fingers scrambling for purchase on the table.

Each stroke rocks through your spine. Your tits drag against the table, mouth hanging open, drool smearing the table. Your mind’s a blur, just the sound of skin slapping, Gojo’s breathy moans, and the obscene, wet noise of him slamming into you over and over and over.

“Say thank you,” he almost growls, snapping his hips up so deep your toes curl. “Say it.”

“T-thank you,” you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

Then, smack. A sharp slap to your ass, and you whine.

“For what?”

“F-fucking me- oh my god- for fucking me-”

“No,” he pants, rutting into you harder now, cock hitting that sweet spot so perfect it could make you squeal. “Say it right. Thank you for relieving my stress.”

“Thank you-” you cry out, broken and shaking. “Thank you for- mmh- relieving my stress.”

He leans over you, his hardened chest against your back, cock still pistoning in your soaked cunt. His mouth finds your neck, tongue dragging across your bare skin before he bites. Sucks. Marks you.

Another hickey. Then another.

You’re completely gone, every thrust having your eyes fluttering, your moans shameless, drool coating your lower face. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing his thick length more than you already were, clenching with every thrust, every filthy word.

His hips stutter, balls tightening as he pounds you into the table.

“So fucking tight,” he groans. “Gonna cum- fuck- gonna cum all over this pretty back.”

And he does. One last brutal thrust and he pulls out, cock twitching before spilling across your lower back in hot, thick ropes, painting your skin in streaks of white.

He watches it drip down your spine, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and still twitching from how hard you just milked him for all he’s worth.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, leaning down to admire his work. “You really were stressed, huh?”

Then he drags a hand up your spine, wiping his fingers through the mess he made, rubbing it into your skin like a filthy seal.

The air is thick with heat, sex, and you. His hand rubs sensual circles into your back.

“You good, sweetheart?” he brushes the hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

You nod, dazed, wrecked, legs still trembling. He leans in and presses a kiss to your lips. It’s soft, slow, tender in a way that almost startles you.

“First kiss,” he whispers against your lips.

Then he straightens, grabbing a warm towel from the side table. His hands are gentle as they wipe you down, cleaning you with a reverence that borders on obscene. He helps you stand straight, pressing another kiss to your temple, his big hands careful and supportive.

“So…” he starts, tapping his lip. “Same time next week?”

You can only stare, flushed and panting.

“No charge, obviously,” he adds, giving you a wink. “I’m invested in your health now.”

Of course you’re coming back. With a dick like that? With a mouth like that? You’d be stupid not to.

You shake your head, trying not to smile.

“Take your time, I’ll be outside.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

You sigh, dragging yourself over to the side table on shaky legs, slowly redressing like your soul wasn’t just rearranged. You grab your clothes, pulling your bra back on, then your shirt, then-

Your panties.

Your panties?

You check under the table. Beside it. In the towel pile.

Your brows shoot up, a slow, disbelieving laugh escapes your lips.

That smug thieving bastard.

He took them, slipping them into his pocket. You shake your head as you pull on your pants, cheeks still flushed, heart returning to a normal rate.

Oh yeah, you’re definitely coming back.

5K notes · View notes

bishovapls · 3 months ago

Text

Our Little One - You Make Such Pretty Sounds When You're Sorry.

Relationships: Natasha Romanoff & Wanda Maximoff & Reader

Summary: A strange day in class and a cryptic text from Natasha have you dreading what’s next. At home, Wanda’s waiting, and together, they’re about to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.

Warnings: 18+, Mommy Kink, Daddy Kink, Age difference, Older WandaNat/Younger Reader, BDSM, Dom/Sub, Spanking, Cunnilingus, Strap-on, Punishment, Overstimulation, Safe word check-ins, small bit of angst.

A/N: Look, I wasn’t planning to write this, but then Natasha and Wanda crawled into my head right before bed the other night and refused to leave until I caved. This is my first one-shot, and easily the filthiest thing I’ve ever written. I have no idea if it turned out any good, but hopefully it flows well. So, enjoy, or survive, whichever seems more fitting.

Word Count: 12,527

NSFW below the cut, you can also read on AO3.

College had drained the life out of you today. You’d sat through back-to-back lectures, trying not to let the endless blur of PowerPoints and polite academic discussion turn your brain into useless soup. By the time your final class rolled around, you were already operating on autopilot, held upright by nothing but caffeine and sheer, exhausted stubbornness.

And yet, despite the fatigue, despite how desperately you wanted the day to be over, you found yourself unconsciously smoothing your hair and tugging your top into place as you stepped into the room.

Because this wasn’t just any class, there was always something different about walking into her room. A hum in your veins. A pulse just beneath your skin. It wasn’t the subject matter, it was her.

Professor Romanoff.

Or just Natasha, when the door was closed and no one else could hear the name fall softly from your lips.

Usually, you’d steal a few precious minutes after class. Ten, maybe fifteen, if she didn’t have another lecture lined up immediately. She’d lean back on her desk, arms crossed, mouth twitching in amusement as you tried, more often than not successfully, to talk her into a heated quickie in the quiet lull before the next hour began.

But that was only ever behind closed doors. In public, she was something else entirely. She had the kind of presence that made even the most confident students lower their eyes and double-check their notes. And it wasn’t an act, Natasha didn’t do acts. She was hard, cold, and impossible to read unless she wanted to be read. And more often than not, she didn’t.

You liked that about her. Actually, you more than liked it. There was something magnetic about the way she commanded a room without ever raising her voice. Something in the quiet precision of her words, in the danger you could sense just beneath the surface. It made your skin tingle, and your cheeks flush as you shift in your seat, trying to relieve the ache that always seemed to build around in her presence.

On a normal day, focusing during her lectures was already difficult, not because the material wasn’t interesting, but because she was more interesting. Because she stood there like a force of nature disguised in slacks and a fitted blazer. Because you knew what that mouth could do when it wasn’t explaining the inner workings of federal power structures.

And because, in some twisted, ridiculous way, part of you liked having to work for her attention. Liked knowing she was the hardest thing in your life to get close to, even when you already had her.

And usually, she kept her distance with practised ease, never letting her gaze linger too long, never allowing her attention to wander toward you, no matter how many times you tried to catch it. She didn’t fall for your excuses to hover near her desk, or the innocent questions you’d find reasons to ask.

She was disciplined, deliberate, and always composed, always professional, navigating that fragile line between teacher and temptation with the kind of precision that left no room for mistakes.

But not today.

Today, Natasha kept looking at you. Not constantly. Just glances. Fleeting, quiet checks. But you felt every single one of them. It wasn’t like her usual rhythm, when her eyes would catch yours so quickly during a particularly dry section of theory and flicker with the faintest hint of amusement.

No, this was different, even subtle at first, almost unnoticeable. Her eyes would lift from her notes, sweeping the room with feigned indifference, only to linger on you a heartbeat too long. Then again, after each slide, her gaze inevitably found its way back. Until eventually, she was watching you mid-sentence, the shift unmistakable.

Her brow would twitch, her jaw tighten just slightly, small betrayals in an otherwise unreadable face. But you saw them. You felt them.

Your nerves prickled. You sat up straighter and tried to follow the lecture, but your attention fractured every time her eyes found yours. You’d give her a faint smile, a small nod, some invisible reassurance that you were fine, that everything was normal.

But clearly, something wasn’t because her face never changed. And yet, with each minute that passed, the tension in her jaw seemed to wind tighter.

The class dragged on. Her voice stayed controlled, of course, but her movements grew clipped, maybe even impatient. She wasn’t just stern. She was simmering, and you didn’t know why.

You looked down at your notes, and they were useless. A few broken lines from the opening ten minutes, before you realised you were being watched like a suspect, not a student. Your chest felt too tight. You could feel it, the storm building behind her silence, the sheer weight of her restraint. Her eyes hadn’t softened once.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d looked at you just a couple of nights before, barefaced and warm, as you curled between her and Wanda in bed. That softness felt galaxies away now. As if this woman standing in front of thirty tired college students wasn’t capable of it at all.

When class finally ended, you stayed seated for a moment, waiting for everyone else to leave. You tried to catch her eye. You needed something, an explanation, a gesture, anything.

But when you stood and took a hesitant step forward, she froze you in place with a single look. Her eyes were ice-cold; it wasn’t a glare, but something worse, something that felt like it was carved from stone.

Her lips didn’t move, but her expression spoke louder than words ever could: Do not come closer. And then, as if to seal it, she gave the slightest shake of her head. You stopped in your tracks, your heart hammering in your chest.

She turned without another word and walked out, the echo of her heels swallowed by the corridor. Gone. No explanation. No signal to follow.

You sat back down slowly, palms clammy against the fabric of your jeans, your chest too tight for proper breath. Fumbling, you pulled out your phone and typed:

Y/N: Hey, just checking in. I can see you want space, but if you need anything, you know where I am 💕

You didn’t expect an answer right away, but waiting felt unbearable. Students passed by in the hallway, voices echoing down the corridors, but it all blurred together beneath the pounding in your skull.

Then, finally, your phone lit up:

Nat ❤️: Don’t even think about going back to your dorm tonight. I want you at the house when I get home.

You stared at the message, heat rising up your neck. Your mouth went dry. It was a Wednesday. You never stayed over on a Wednesday, and she knew that. This wasn’t routine. This wasn’t planned. This was a summons. Your fingers trembled slightly as you replied:

Y/N: No problem, but I do have class tomorrow?

The response came back immediately, with the kind of precision that made you feel like she’d been waiting to strike:

Nat ❤️: I do not care. You have some explaining to do and a punishment to take.

Your stomach dropped. The words didn’t excite you, not the way they sometimes might have. Because you hadn’t done anything. Not that you could remember, anyway.

Y/N: May I ask what I did? 🥺

You watched the typing bubble appear and vanish, reappear, vanish again. That alone was terrifying. Then came the final message:

Nat ❤️: If you don’t know, that’s even more of a problem. I will see you later.

Your fingers went numb around your phone. The conversation was over. Not a door closed, but slammed. You were being summoned, not invited. And Natasha was not the kind of woman who forgave ignorance.

You sat there, alone in the empty lecture hall, trying to piece together what had just happened. Trying to slow your racing heart. Trying to make sense of the shift in her, and the way she’d kept watching you, the subtle fury in her shoulders by the time she’d left.

Eventually, you stood slowly. The world outside was still moving, students were chatting, feet were pounding down the stairs, but you couldn’t hear any of it through the roar of your thoughts. You had no idea what you’d done, but tonight, you’d find out.

And Natasha? She’d make sure you never forgot.

-----

You push the door open to Wanda and Natasha’s house, the familiar click of the lock sounding almost like a welcome. You’ve had a key for a while now, a simple gesture that felt far too intimate at first, but over time became just another part of your routine.

You stay with them most nights, save for Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays when it’s just easier to commute to your early classes from your dorm. As much as you love their place, the commute isn’t something you’re willing to make five days a week, not when there’s a perfectly good bed waiting for you just five minutes from campus.

Wanda’s been on a mission to get you to move in permanently. She’s convinced you’re one bad decision away from passing out from dehydration or malnutrition. She wants to keep you close, so she can make sure you're actually eating and hydrating properly on those long days of class. And honestly, she’s not wrong.

Since you left on Tuesday morning, not a drop of water has passed your lips. You've been running on caffeine and convenience, coffee, soda, instant ramen, and the odd granola bar when you remember it exists. It's not that you want to neglect yourself, you just…forget.

Between the whirlwind of lectures, social obligations, deadlines that keep multiplying, and the constant pressure to stay ahead, basic self-care always seems to fall to the bottom of the list. But Wanda, with her soft, knowing smiles and that relentless stream of gentle, insistent nagging, never lets it slide. She pushes you persistently to do better, to take care of yourself the way she so clearly wants to and moving in would make that job so much easier for her.

You’re just not sure you’re ready to take that leap, even though you’re there most nights anyway. Even though, when you open the door, you feel like it is more of a home than your dorm ever could be. More of a home than you have ever had.

You are just about taking off your jacket when you hear it, footsteps pounding across the hardwood floor, fast and frantic, followed by a high-pitched shout, “Who’s there?!”

You freeze in place, but before you can even process what’s happening, Wanda rounds the corner, eyes wide and panicked. She’s holding a rolling pin, raised high, defensive, like she’s ready to take down any intruder. But the second her eyes meet yours, the tension in her posture melts away.

Her hand flies to her chest, breath rushing out of her in relief. “Oh my God, I thought someone was breaking in!” she says, voice trembling with laughter as she lowers the rolling pin, clutching it like a lifeline. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here! Thank God it’s just you!”

You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, watching Wanda’s wide-eyed panic dissolve into a warm, relieved smile. It’s like she’s just narrowly escaped some disaster, her whole posture shifting from defensive to relaxed. The rolling pin, once held in her grip like a weapon ready for battle, now seems almost comically out of place as she smooths her messy hair, catching her breath with a small, almost sheepish laugh.

“Wow, I’m sure that rolling pin would’ve really done some serious damage,” you tease, stepping further inside, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread wrapping around you like a warm, comforting hug. It feels like home, and the weight of the day lifts just a little as you breathe it in.

Wanda’s eyes flicker with a glint of mischief, her smile widening as she taps the rolling pin against her palm, the sound sharp and deliberate. “We can test it if you like, printsessa (princess),” she says, her tone light but with an undeniable edge. It’s playful, but there’s an authority in her voice that makes your pulse skip just a little.

You laugh nervously, but the teasing fades quickly as the reality of why you’re there settles back in. “Please don’t. I’m already being punished tonight. I don’t think I can take two.” The words feel heavy as they leave your mouth, and you can’t help but drop your playful demeanour, anxiety creeping back into your chest.

Wanda’s expression shifts immediately. Her eyes narrow slightly, her gaze becoming more intense as she takes a step closer to you, the playful dominance replaced by something a little more commanding. “Oh, malyshka (Little One),” she says, the softness in her voice not hiding the concern that edges into it. “What did you do? Is that why you’re here on a Wednesday?” Her words are measured, her presence filling the room as she stands a little taller, every inch of her radiating control.

You nod, your stomach twisting with unease. “I don’t know what I did,” you admit softly, almost ashamed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wanda’s eyes flash, the edge of authority sharpening as she steps closer still, crossing the space between you in two long strides. She leans down just slightly, her eyes never leaving yours. “How can you not know?” she asks, as if she can’t fathom how you could be this clueless about the situation.

You hand her your phone, the text thread from Natasha clearly visible on the screen. You don’t say anything, just letting Wanda read it in silence, feeling your heart race in your chest as she scans the words.

After a moment, Wanda chuckles softly, the sound rich with both amusement and disbelief. “Oh, she is mad, little girl,” she says, her voice low. “Surely, you must have some idea?” Her gaze softens just a touch, but the air is thick with the weight of her words.

You whine softly, feeling small under Wanda's gaze, your chest tightening with the anxiety that's been building for what feels like hours. Your voice comes out shaky as you mutter, “I promise, I don’t.”

Wanda stands there for a moment, her gaze hard, but she softens before you can even register the change. Then, without saying a word, she steps closer and gently places her hand on your cheek. The touch is tender, yet firm, grounding you in a way that only Wanda can.

Her thumb brushes over your skin as she leans in slightly, her voice quiet but commanding, “I think we should get you fed before Daddy gets home, don’t you?”

Her words send a shiver running down your spine, and you can’t help but feel the mix of anticipation and dread swirling in your stomach. “You are in for a long night,” she adds with a small, knowing smirk, and the intensity in her tone makes your heart skip.

You’re too nervous to say anything back, but you nod, unable to form any coherent words as the anxiety continues to crawl up your throat. Wanda watches you for a moment, assessing you, before she takes your hand, guiding you like a puppy as you follow her to the kitchen island.

You sit down as she instructs, the weight of everything still pressing on your chest, but Wanda’s calm presence is the only thing that keeps you grounded.

“Do some schoolwork while I cook dinner,” she orders gently, her tone still laced with that quiet authority. She pulls your laptop from your bag and places it in front of you before sliding a tall glass of ice-cold water across the counter toward you. “And drink up,” she adds with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

You obey, opening your laptop and trying to focus on an essay for one of your classes. Wanda moves around the kitchen with ease, a soft hum escaping her lips as she begins cooking. The familiar, comforting scents of whatever she’s preparing fill the room, and your stomach growls in response. You try to ignore it, but the gnawing hunger in your stomach only intensifies the unease you are already feeling.

Eventually, Wanda moves back over to you, two plates in her hands. She sets them down gently and moves the laptop aside, her movements fluid and confident. You smile at her gratefully and shift the plate of food closer, your stomach growling louder.

Wanda sets herself on the other side of the kitchen island, her own plate in front of her, and begins to eat. But you can’t seem to shake the gnawing anxiety, the constant thought in your head: What did I do wrong?

Punishments aren’t something you fear; in fact, you crave them. They ground you, help you find clarity, but this time is different. You don’t know what you’ve done, and that uncertainty is eating away at you.

Wanda notices, because of course she does. Her sharp eyes never miss anything, and she can sense the distraction in your body language. She pauses mid-bite as she places one of her hands gently over yours, pulling your attention back to her. “Hey, malyshka (Little One), you okay?” she asks, her voice gentle but firm, the concern in her eyes unmistakable.

You nod, but it’s a lie. The words don’t come, and you can feel the weight of them sitting heavily on your tongue. Wanda doesn’t buy it. She looks at you with concern, her brow furrowing as she places her fork down. “Are you sure?” she asks again, her voice soft but insistent.

This time, you can’t just nod; you know she won’t accept that. You huff and let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. “I don’t know what I’ve done, Wands!” you finally spill out. “I hate this, she’s never done this before! She usually at least tells me what’s wrong! But now I don’t know! I don't know, and I’m stressed, and I…” You’re cut off as Wanda calmly places a finger over your lips.

“Sweetheart… do you want to safeword?” she asks, her tone low and understanding. “We can call off the punishment, we can cuddle. I’ll text her and tell her to come home as Nat, not Daddy?” Her voice is soothing, but there's no mistaking that she would respect your decision, whether you chose the safeword or not.

You shake your head quickly, almost panicked at the thought. “No! I want to take my punishment if I deserve it! I do! I just hate not knowing,” you admit, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Wanda nods, her expression soft but still serious. “Okay. Do you want me to text her and ask her what happened?”

You hesitate, if Natasha finds out you’ve been whining, she might only get more upset, and you know what that means. The punishment will be harsher, sharper, drawn out with precision. And worse still, Wanda would know sooner what you’d done. She’d be disappointed too. That thought alone threatens to undo you.

The fear of making everything spiral further roots you to the spot. Your head shakes slowly, your voice barely above a whisper, thin and fragile. “I can wait,” you murmur, even though the tremble in your tone betrays just how hard that wait will be.

Wanda’s brow furrows in confusion. “But you’re upset,” she says softly, her gaze filled with concern.

You shrug, trying to find the right words, but they’re hard to grasp. “Not upset, just anxious. It’s okay, I swear. I’m green, promise,” you say, trying to reassure her, but it doesn’t feel convincing, even to you.

Wanda studies you for a moment, her eyes softening as she nods. “Okay, then. How about we go to the living room with our food and watch TV? You can keep your mind off it for a bit,” she suggests, her voice light but still commanding in that way that makes you feel safe.

You can’t help the huge grin that spreads across your face, the tension in your chest easing just a little at the idea of escaping into the comforting normalcy of watching TV with her. “Yes, please!” you say, a wave of relief washing over you as you get up and follow her to the living room.

-----

Thirty minutes later, you find yourself nestled in Wanda’s lap, completely relaxed. Your head rests against her chest, the steady beat of her heart soothing you as her fingers rake gently through your hair. Every pass of her hand makes you feel more grounded, more at peace than you have all day. The warmth of her embrace envelops you, and for a moment, all your worries seem to fade away, leaving only contentment in their wake.

But that peace is shattered the moment you hear the jingle of keys in the door. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoes through the room, and your body stiffens instantly. Your muscles tense, your heart rate spikes.

Wanda notices immediately, her soothing presence never faltering. She coos softly, her voice a gentle balm against the sudden rush of anxiety. “Shh, it’s okay, Malyshka (Little One),” she whispers, her hands stilling in your hair for a moment before she resumes her tender strokes. “It is going to be fine, I promise.”

You try to take a deep breath, but your chest feels tight, your pulse quickening. The sound of the door opening only makes everything feel more real, and you can’t shake the anticipation that’s been building.

Wanda continues to hush you, her touch gentle but insistent, her own calmness seeping into you as she holds you close. She knows you’re on edge, and she’s determined to help you settle, even as the door swings open and the sound of footsteps grows louder.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Natasha’s voice cuts through the room like a whip, her gaze locking onto you with immediate intensity. Every muscle in your body tenses at the sound of her voice, and the calm Wanda had provided suddenly feels distant. “Did she not tell you she’s in trouble?”

Wanda, unfazed, offers a simple shrug. Her lips curl into a knowing, gentle smile as she leans down to plant a kiss on the side of your head, fingers brushing your hair softly. “She did, but she also said she didn’t know what she did. Can’t really be mad if I don’t know what I’m angry at, can I?” Her tone is soft, but there’s no mistaking the authority she carries in her words.

Natasha’s expression tightens, but there’s an unmistakable glint in her eyes, something between amusement and affection that flickers for a second, only to be quickly replaced by that hard exterior she wears so effortlessly.

She rolls her eyes, a silent acknowledgement of Wanda’s ability to disarm her, but Natasha knows this is only temporary. She knows exactly how this is going to unfold when she gets the full story. So she turns to you again, “Have you really pretended that you do not know?” Her voice is stern, but there’s an edge to it that makes you want to curl into Wanda even more.

You freeze, her gaze pinning you in place. “Nat, I—” you start, but Natasha interrupts you with a growl that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Who?!” she spits out, her voice a low, threatening rumble, and you feel the power of it go straight to your gut.

“Daddy! I’m sorry!” You blurt out quickly, the realisation hitting you hard that you’ve made the mistake of addressing her the wrong way.

“Now, tell me what you did,” Natasha orders, voice cold and firm, yet there’s an unmistakable tension in the air. Every inch of her radiates control, and you feel utterly exposed under her scrutiny.

Your heart begins to race, anxiety clawing at you from all sides. You search your mind desperately, but you can’t find anything that would explain the situation.

“Daddy! I don’t know! I swear I don’t!” you cry out, the panic creeping into your voice. Your chest tightens, and the air feels thick with pressure as the anxiety begins to overwhelm you. “Please, just tell me, and I’ll never do it again. I promise!” The words spill out in a flood, desperation lining each one.

Wanda cups your cheek gently. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” she coos, her voice soothing you just enough. “Tell her, Nat. She’s anxious. She genuinely doesn’t know.”

Natasha’s hard gaze softens just a fraction, but only for a moment, as she looks at you, taking in your state. She studies you quietly, the weight of her eyes never leaving your face. “Check in?” she asks softly, the sudden shift in tone catching you off guard. Her usual cold exterior is melting just a little, the concern in her voice undeniable.

You nod quickly, feeling the tension in your chest finally start to release just a little. “Green, Daddy,” you say softly, your voice shaky, “Just wanna know, please.” The words come out in a rush. You need to know what you’ve done because the uncertainty is almost unbearable.

Natasha’s gaze is piercing, unwavering as she studies you. You can almost feel the weight of her thoughts pressing down on you, trying to decide whether to accept your check-in or call everything off. It’s not the first time you’ve refused to use your safe word, after all.

You’ve always hated disappointing them, even though they’ve tried to reassure you time and again that using the safe word would never make them angry, that they would always prefer that over you suffering in silence.

Luckily, both Wanda and Natasha are masters at reading you by now. They can see the smallest shift in your body language, the way your breath catches or how your eyes dart, and they know when you need it, even if you don’t say a word.

This time, Natasha clearly reads that you are fine, and her decision is clear. Her expression hardens, her posture shifting as she straightens up, the cold, controlled version of herself taking over once more.

“Do you want to tell Mommy why you were being a little whore in my class, then?” Natasha sneers, her voice dripping with venom. It isn’t a question, it’s a command, an accusation that hits you with a force you weren’t prepared for.

The air grows heavy with tension, and you feel yourself shrinking and exposed. Wanda stiffens beneath you, and you feel her body tighten, the subtle shift in her posture unmistakable. Her voice is low, dangerous. "You what?" she asks, her tone sending a shudder through your entire body.

See, while Natasha can be jealous, Wanda is something else entirely, possessive in a way that runs deep. If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, she’s there in an instant, staking her claim. A possessive hand on your waist, pulling you closer, her eyes locking onto whoever dared to cross her, shooting daggers that make it clear: you’re hers. And later, she’ll make sure you never forget it. She’ll remind you, again and again, who you belong to.

And that's why Natasha’s words have your heart sinking into your stomach. You can feel Wanda’s temper flare, like a storm building just beneath the surface. The possessive, primal energy she exudes in moments like this is enough to make you feel both cherished and utterly helpless in her care. And now, with Natasha’s harsh words hanging in the air, you know that things are about to escalate, one way or another.

“I... I don’t know what you mean, Daddy,” you stammer, your words coming out shakily. “I didn’t do anything in class?” you ask, but your voice wavers with uncertainty, as if you don’t trust your own memory now.

Wanda’s gaze sharpens in an instant, her posture stiffening as she looks at you, her tone turning cold. “Are you trying to say Daddy’s a liar, little girl?” she murmurs, her voice laced with a warning that sends a chill down your spine.

“N…no, Mommy!” you rush to correct yourself, the panic evident in your voice. “I just…maybe she was confused,” you offer, though deep down you know that’s not going to help.

The moment the words leave your mouth, you see Natasha’s face darken, her eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint, and her lips curl into a dark, menacing laugh.

“So, I’m confused, hm?” Natasha spits, her voice dripping with disdain. The way she speaks makes you feel small, insignificant under her gaze. “So, you didn’t have that blonde slut all over you today?” The words cut through the air like a knife, and the heat in her voice makes your stomach twist.

Wanda’s grip on your waist tightens, her eyes flashing with a possessiveness that you know well. The air between the three of you feels thick, charged with the unspoken tension of what’s to come.

You think, like really, really think, and that’s when it hits you. Today, Carol came in and sat next to you. She’s in one of your other classes, and you’ve been working on a project together. She just decided to sit with you in this one. You hadn’t even thought twice about it, your mind focused on one thing and one thing only: Natasha.

“Y…you mean Carol?” you ask, your voice hesitant, heart racing as it all starts to click into place. The moment the name leaves your lips, Wanda’s grip tightens around your waist again, this time her nails digging into your skin with such force that you can feel the sting. You’re sure she’s leaving little indents.

Natasha’s eyes narrow, lips curling into something far darker than usual. “So you do know what I’m talking about,” she says, her voice low and filled with barely contained anger.

You swallow hard, the weight of what you’ve just admitted making your throat tighten. “Well, I guess…now you mention it. But it’s not what you think, I promise!” you scramble to explain. “We’re in a class together! We’re friends!”

Natasha’s voice cuts through the air with an icy edge. “She spent most of my lesson touching your arm and whispering to you, not once did I see you push her away.”

Your pulse spikes as you try to think of something, anything, that could make this right. “I wasn’t even paying attention to her, Daddy!” you protest, your voice wavering. “I was watching you!” You can’t help the desperation creeping into your words, but you know it’s a weak defence. If Natasha saw Carol touch you, she also saw Carol slip you a piece of paper with her number on it.

“Come here,” Natasha commands, her voice like steel.

You freeze, dread pooling in your stomach. You don’t want to, but there’s no escaping this. Wanda’s hand on your waist pushes you forward, an unspoken command in her touch.

You glance back at her, hoping for some sign of leniency, but Wanda’s expression is unreadable. She just nods towards Natasha, her lips pressed together in a line. “Go,” she says softly, but the command is clear, and you obey.

You walk to Natasha, your steps unsteady. When you get close, Natasha doesn’t say a word, she just leans into you, her body pressing against yours, solid and unyielding. Her hand slides around your back, pulling you close, before slipping into the back pocket of your jeans.

She pulls out the piece of paper, unfolding it slowly, eyes scanning the digits with a smirk. “So what’s this, then?” she asks, her voice dripping with barely contained fury. “I bet if I call this number, it’ll ring straight through to her, right?”

You feel the heat rising in your face, the guilt settling in your chest like a heavy weight. The words stick in your throat, but you force them out anyway. “We’re just working on a project together, I swear. It’s not what you think.” Your voice shakes slightly, small and uncertain.

“Does she know who you belong to, Kotenok (Kitten) ?” Natasha asks, her grip firm as she tilts your chin to meet her gaze.

“Of course not, we would get in trouble, Daddy,” you reply, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. You wish you could shout it from the rooftops, to let everyone know the truth of your bond, but you can’t, not yet, at least. Not until you finish college.

“So, she thinks you’re free for the taking, then?” Natasha says, her voice sharp as her hand moves to rest lightly against your throat, a subtle pressure that sends a ripple of heat through you.

You nod as best you can with her hand on your throat, it’s not like you had any words that would make this any better for you.

Just then, Wanda’s presence shifts behind you, her voice soft but laced with something possessive as she murmurs in your ear, “Do you want her to take you, malyshka (Little One)? You want to be hers instead?”

"No! I only want Mommy and Daddy!" you say quickly, your voice trembling. "Just you, only you!" you plead, desperation creeping into your words, hoping they'll understand and let it go.

"So why didn’t you tell her that…You…Are…Taken?" Wanda growled, her voice low and firm, each word emphasised as her hands once again hold your waist possessively.

“I...I didn’t know what to say!” you stutter, your hands trembling by your sides, your eyes desperately darting between them both, searching for any sign of understanding. “She just wanted me to call about the project!”

Wanda’s eyes narrow, the intensity of her gaze enough to make the air around you feel suffocating. You can feel her anger rising, thick and palpable, but there’s something darker behind it, something more possessive, more protective.

Her lips curl into a scowl, and before you can blink, she spits the words at you like venom, “Next time you see her you tell her you are taken, or I swear i’ll send you there with a collar saying ‘Daddy and mommy’s Little Whore’, do you fucking understand me?”

Part of you can’t help but be completely captivated by the thought, the idea sparking something deep inside you and making you instinctively rub your thighs together. It makes your skin flush with heat, a pleasant, electric sensation running down your spine, and for a fleeting moment, you find yourself lost in the possessiveness that pulses in the air around you.

But then, just as quickly, the other part of you can’t shake the growing tension, the irritation radiating off both Natasha and Wanda, so raw and so intense, it’s almost suffocating.

The contrast is overwhelming, the pull of desire at odds with the heavy weight of their disapproval. You feel yourself caught between two forces, one tugging you towards them, the other urging you to retreat. The battle within you makes your chest tighten, your heart beating erratically in your ribcage.

With a sharp breath, you lock eyes with Wanda, your gaze wide, pleading, desperate for them to see how sorry you are. “Yes! I will tell her, I promise, all yours!” you cry out, your voice trembling.

Natasha watches the exchange quietly, her eyes, dark and unreadable, flicker between you and Wanda, her expression shifting from one of hard discipline to something softer, more calculating.

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watches you with a look that makes your stomach churn. Finally, her grip on your neck loosens, but there’s no warmth in her touch, no comfort. “Good,” she says flatly, her voice cold but laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of satisfaction. “But you’ve still got a punishment to take. You still let someone touch what is ours, and you didn’t tell them you were taken.”

You nod, your voice quiet but firm. "I understand, Daddy."

Natasha’s smile widens, a glint of amusement in her eyes as she steps back slightly. "I'll be lenient this time," she says, her tone softened just a fraction. "You didn’t know what to say. But next time, there will be heavy consequences."

You offer a weak smile, your eyes locking with hers as you try to convey your gratitude. "Thank you," you murmur, your voice quiet but sincere.

She smiles back at you, her expression softening for a brief moment. "Of course, Kotenok (Kitten). Anything for you," she replies, her voice gentle. But then, as if snapping back to reality, her tone sharpens as she takes a step back. "Now, since I am being lenient, I will let you choose, me or mommy?"

The question lingers, and you feel the tension coil around you. You knew exactly what it meant, the decision of who would be responsible for determining the consequences of your actions.

There was a strange mix of both fear and heat at the thought, as each choice came with its own set of pros and cons, a balance of pleasure and discipline. Every scenario had its own sting, its own thrill, and you found yourself torn between the two.

With Wanda, you knew exactly what to expect: there would be a spanking, no question about it. It was inevitable. But as much as the thought of it made your stomach tighten, deep down, you knew it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.

In fact, you knew that once you settled into it, the sting would fade into something else entirely, something that left you breathless, your body humming, and your thighs soaked.

When it came to Natasha, however, punishment wasn’t physical in that way. She didn’t need to raise a hand to make her point; she only needed to make you feel her dominance. It was always intense, overwhelming, and she would take you to that edge over and over, until you thought you might break, until you begged for that final release.

Despite the intensity, though, you knew either option would end on a positive note. That was how they worked, at least most of the time: punishment followed by reward. It wasn’t clear whether that was because they simply couldn’t help themselves when they saw your face stained with tears and your ass warm and bruised.

Or if they truly thought you needed it after a heavy punishment, but in the end, it didn’t matter. You always got what you wanted, and more, so there was no room for complaints. You were theirs, completely, and as much as it sometimes scared you, you couldn’t imagine wanting it any other way.

"I'll take Mommy," you say, your voice quiet but steady, hoping by choosing her, your punishment would be over sooner and you could get to the reward.

Natasha smirks, her eyes sharp with quiet understanding. She’s not the least bit surprised by your choice, it’s the one you gravitate toward most often. She’s observant enough to know why. She gets it.

But there’s a part of her that finds it amusing, maybe even a little telling. Because the faster route means you skip the slow unravelling, the careful teasing apart of your restraint. And sure, you get what you came for, but it’s not as deep, not as intense.

It hasn’t been dragged out of you, layer by layer, until you’re nothing but trembling need, until you’re sobbing, your voice breaking as you plead for mercy.

When it’s over too quickly, it never quite hits the same, and she knows that. Knows you’ll crave the kind of release that only comes when you’ve been pushed to your edge, and then held there just a little too long.

But still, you choose the faster path, because you’re ruled by the moment, always chasing the high without the patience for the slow burn. Immediate gratification. That’s your weakness, and Natasha sees right through it.

But you’ve made your choice, and with that, something changes in Wanda’s expression. Her eyes darken, a flicker of anticipation sparking in their depths, slow and deliberate. There’s a hunger there now, undeniable, smouldering just beneath the surface, as the reality of what she’s about to do sinks in.

The power of it. The control. It stirs something deep inside her, a heat curling in her chest, coiling low in her belly. And for a moment, she doesn’t look away. She lets you see it, lets you feel exactly what you’ve just invited.

After staring you down as if you were her prey, Wanda turns to Natasha as if you aren't even there. “I’ll heat up your food for you first,” her voice is smooth and teasing, with a playful glint in her eye.

There’s a soft warmth to her words, but she can’t help but add, “I’m sure you’re going to work up quite an appetite…though I think it’s more than just food you’re after, isn’t it?” She smirks, clearly enjoying teasing Natasha, who has an equal look of pure lust on her face.

“Thank you, love,” Natasha replies, her voice warm and genuine. She leans past you to kiss Wanda on the cheek, a soft, affectionate gesture that feels like a contrast to the intensity you’re feeling.

Wanda meets your gaze, “Go upstairs and wait for me,” she says, her words gentle but with an unmistakable edge, “you know what I expect of you.”

You nod, your thoughts spinning as you make your way upstairs, the anticipation building with each step. The familiar mix of excitement and nerves tightens in your chest as you reach the bedroom.

Without a second thought, strip down and position yourself on your knees, your back straight and your hands resting gently on your thighs, waiting in silence. You know the drill by now, the routine you've followed countless times, it's instinct.

You wait, the silence in the room stretching into what feels like an eternity, the minutes dragging on longer than they should. Five minutes feels like five thousand. Just as you're starting to wonder if the moment will ever come, Wanda enters, followed by Natasha, who holds a plate of food in her hands.

She settles herself on the chaise lounge in the bedroom, before casually tucking into her meal as if everything is perfectly normal, which leaves you staring in pure confusion.

You're here, waiting to be punished, naked as the day you were born and on your knees, and yet Natasha is sitting there, eating as if nothing is about to unfold. As if she weren’t the one who made this happen.

Wanda, however, doesn't miss a beat. She moves toward the end of the bed and gestures for you to come over. No words are needed; it's a command in the way she moves, in the way her eyes meet yours. You follow, your heart racing.

The moment you lower yourself across Wanda’s lap, the atmosphere thickens again. The air feels heavier somehow, charged with something unspoken but deeply felt. Anticipation winds itself tight in your chest, each breath more shallow than the last.

Her hand finds your back, steady and sure, fingers trailing with deliberate slowness. It isn’t quite a tickle, not really, it’s lighter, more precise, like she’s drawing something into your skin with invisible ink. Every pass leaves goosebumps in its wake, your skin tingling, burning, as though her touch carries heat just beneath the surface. And she knows. She always knows exactly what she’s doing.

“So, how many do you think you deserve?” she asks, her voice steady but with a hint of amusement.

You hesitate for a moment, but you know what you should say. “That’s for mommy to decide.” The memory of that one time you tried to choose, only to end up with triple the spanks, flashes in your mind.

“Correct answer. That’s my good girl,” Wanda murmurs, a small smile curling on her lips as her hand rubs your back.

Another shiver runs down your spine at the praise, a mix of warmth and something deeper pooling lower. You try your best to hold yourself still, the tension between you and Wanda hanging thick in the air.

She’s taking her time, letting the anticipation build in the way she knows best, and it only makes your heartbeat quicken. The silence seems to stretch on forever before she finally speaks again, her voice smooth, calm, and laced with that unmistakable authority.

“I think we should go for an even 20,” she says, the words lingering in the air. “You know the drill. Count, or we restart. Understood?”

The instructions are clear. Your pulse spikes with a mixture of dread and excitement, but you nod, determined to obey. “Understood. Thank you, Mommy.”

Wanda hums softly, the sound rich with approval, and shifts beneath you with slow, purposeful movements. You feel her adjust her grip, one arm anchoring you more securely, her body bracing to keep you from slipping away once the inevitable squirming begins.

The anticipation wraps itself around your ribs, pressing tight. It’s almost too much, the stillness, the waiting, but you hold yourself steady, grounding yourself in the reassuring weight of her hand. It’s a silent promise, one that says she’s in control now, and all you have to do is take it.

“Good,” Wanda murmurs, before her free hand lifts, the room seeming to hold its breath. The first strike comes quickly, sharp and firm, and you gasp, the sting resonating deep, your body jolting with the impact.

“One,” you say softly, the word barely escaping as the shock of the strike settles in.

Wanda’s fingers gently trace the spot where her hand had just made contact, and her voice comes, low and coaxing. “That’s it. Keep counting, sweetheart.”

The next strike lands, as harsh and deliberate as the last, and you gasp sharply, the sound escaping before you can control it. Your mind scrambles to keep up, to count each blow, but each one piles onto the next, making your muscles tense and coil tighter.

You fight to focus, trying to force the numbers out of your mouth, but with each impact, helpless whines and gasps slip past your lips. Your body is caught in a battle, pull away, or stay still, torn between the instinct to escape and the overwhelming pull to please them.

Wanda stops halfway through; she doesn’t speak immediately, letting the moment hang between you. “Halfway there,” she comments after a moment, her tone neutral, but you can hear the faint edge of satisfaction. “You’re doing so well, you make such pretty sounds when you're sorry.”

Your body hums with a heady mixture of discomfort and desire. The line between pain and pleasure blurred just a few strikes in, your nerves now tangled in the sensation, electric and consuming. You’re grateful for the brief pause, your breath coming in shallow bursts, because you were teetering dangerously close to the edge. And coming without permission, and during a punishment, was asking for a whole world of trouble.

Been there, done that. Couldn’t sit for a week. Didn't cum for two. Never, ever again.

The sensation thrums through you, overwhelming and all-consuming. And yet, what leaves you most exposed, most unsteady, is Natasha. Seated just beyond reach, her presence a quiet constant, she hasn’t looked away once. Calm, unreadable, completely focused on you, on every twitch, every kick, every sound.

She’s impossibly calm, sitting there with her meal, each bite unhurried, her posture loose and at ease, as if you aren’t draped over Wanda’s lap, your skin flushed a vivid red, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. As if the sounds you’re making, the trembling of your body, aren’t happening right in front of her.

And somehow, it only makes everything worse, in the best, most unbearable way. The casualness of it, the way Natasha observes without a flicker of surprise or discomfort, makes something inside you ache.

Eventually, Wanda starts spanking again, each one taking you closer to the end of the 20. There’s no rushing; Wanda’s pace is deliberate, making sure every strike has its intended effect.

The last strike comes, and you can’t help but gasp, your entire body tightening as you brace yourself. “Twenty,” you manage to say, your voice shaky, relief filling your chest.

Wanda’s hand rests lightly on your ass, her fingers grazing over the sensitive skin, the touch soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the sharpness of what came before. There’s a brief moment of stillness between you, the room quiet except for the sound of your breath.

Slowly, Wanda lifts your chin, her gaze meeting yours, taking in the tear-streaked lines on your face. She leans forward, placing a soft kiss on your temple.

Her voice, when she speaks again, is softer, but the control remains, a steady thread woven through her words. “Good girl. You took your punishment so well.”

“Thank you, Mommy,” you whisper, your throat already a little sore from the crying out and moaning from your spanks. Your body still hums with the lingering heat of what just passed.

The fingers of her free hand make their way between your thighs, very gently pushing them open before dipping down to tease your slit. “You got so wet from Mommy’s spanking, malyshka (Little One),” she mused. You automatically push back into her touch, your pussy begging for relief, a small moan ripping up your throat from the contact.

She chuckles darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Doesn’t seem like it was much of a punishment if you are this worked up, hm?” she says, her fingers gently stroking between your folds, collecting the wetness that has built up. “What do you think, Natasha?” she asks, glancing toward the redhead with a knowing smirk. “Does she need more?”

You can’t help the soft whine that escapes your lips at her words, but you stay quiet, focusing on keeping yourself composed. You know better than to speak out of turn; your mouth will only get you in trouble right now.

Natasha leans back slightly, studying you for a moment, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. She places her plate down on the side table and moves closer, her presence almost overwhelming as she crouches in front of you. Her eyes soften just a touch as she meets your gaze, before she leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

“You did good,” Natasha murmurs, her voice low and steady, wrapping around you like a soft caress. The words sink deep, easing the rawness that still lingers in your chest. “You are forgiven, my love.”

Wanda’s voice cuts through the moment, smooth and teasing. “You’ve gone soft,” she says to Natasha, her fingers never pausing their motions. The warmth blossoming inside you is undeniable now, between the spanking and this teasing, you already feel ready to cum. Your body is on edge, waiting for that command, waiting to be told it is okay.

Natasha chuckles, her gaze darkening slightly as she watches you. “You just enjoy spanking her too much,” she says, voice dripping with a mix of affection and challenge. “Maybe you need to remember what it’s like.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You swallow hard, a wave of pure desire rushing through you at the thought of watching your Mommy over your Daddy’s knee. Your mouth goes dry, and before you can stop yourself, a loud moan escapes your lips, the sound betraying your excitement at the thought.

“You like that idea?” Natasha asks, her tone rich with amusement and something more. “You wanna watch Mommy get spanked, Kotenok (Kitten) ?” You can only nod, your body betraying you once again, words refusing to form as your brain shows you images in your mind.

“You are going to regret that,” Wanda warns as she suddenly pushes her fingers inside your soaking hole, pumping in and out of you mercilessly, hitting that deep spot just right. All you can do is squirm and moan; you are entirely at her mercy.

“Mmm, shit….shit…so…good, Mommy….so goood” you manage to let out between moans as your hips try their best to push back to somehow get her fingers even further inside you. You certainly regret nothing right now.

Wanda keeps up the pace, and you can feel your walls getting tighter, squeezing her fingers. You are close, so close, and she knows it. Wanda leans down slightly her mouth hovering just above your ear as she murmurs, “are you about to cum for us, slut?” which results in an absolutely obscene moan falling from your mouth as you nod feverishly.

Suddenly, Natasha’s voice slices through the charged silence, sharp and commanding. “Wanda, stop.” Her tone is final, leaving no room for defiance.

To your absolute disappointment, Wanda obeys without hesitation. The abrupt stop leaves you with a sudden emptiness, and you can’t hold it back. The whine that escapes you is loud, desperate, and completely unrestrained.

Your chest tightens as fresh tears well up, spilling down your cheeks in silent frustration. “Please! Daddy, please let me cum!” You beg, giving her the best puppy dog eyes you possibly could, “You said I was forgiven!”

Natasha ignores your whining as she walks towards the closet with her usual confident stride, her eyes glinting with a playful spark. A few moments later, she emerges, naked apart from the most girthiest strap you own hanging from her hips, the smirk on her face never fading.

Your eyes linger on her, unashamedly taking in every detail, and you notice Wanda's gaze following suit. She chuckles softly at the sight, her amusement clearly evident. Then, with a wicked smile, she continues, "You’re forgiven, but there’s one thing you didn’t count on."

Your breath catches, eyes wide with curiosity and a touch of apprehension. “What?” you ask, the word coming out more strained than you intended, a knot forming in your stomach.

“I know you,” she says, her voice low and sure as she strides toward you. With a firm grip, she manhandles you off Wanda’s lap, and you go willingly, your body already responding to her touch as she lays you down on your front on the bed. “So I know exactly how you think,” she adds, her tone almost teasing, as if she’s savouring the anticipation of what comes next.

“And I know,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your ear, “you thought choosing Wanda’s punishment woud mean you get to cum faster.” Her voice is a soft whisper, filled with knowing amusement, as if she’s fully aware of the thoughts that ran through your mind.

She grips your hips firmly, lifting them so you’re forced onto your hands and knees. With a swift motion, she pushes you down, guiding your back into a deep arch. You surrender to her touch, allowing her to position you just as she wants, the desire to please and obey coursing through you, making you still and compliant.

“Wanda, sit in front of her,” Natasha commands, her voice steady and authoritative. Wanda responds with a simple nod, acknowledging the instruction before gracefully moving to take her place, sitting directly in front of you, spreading her legs wide, giving you a complete view of her soaking folds.

“Now, since you thought you were clever, you don’t get to cum until she does,” Natasha growled as her eyes locked on Wanda’s bare cunt. The intensity in her gaze was palpable, and her voice, though strained, carried an unmistakable edge. “Go on, make Mommy feel good.”

You immediately set to work, your focus absolute, as if your very life hinged on the task at hand. Natasha was pushing your face hard in Wanda’s cunt, as if you didn't need to breathe. In your eyes though, you would die happy if it was right there, between her thighs; licking and sucking in the exact way she taught you.

“F…Fuck, you’re so good at that,’ Wanda moaned, her hips pushing even further into your face. “Need to put that pretty mouth of yours to use more often.” Her voice was breathless, her eyes locked on yours, pupils wide with desire.

You can’t help the way your chest swells with pride at the praise. The compliment sent a jolt directly to your core. You swore you felt yourself clench around nothing, and a moan accidentally slipped from your lips.

It didn't take long, though, for it not to be nothing; suddenly, Natasha was behind you, her strap stroking through your folds as she got it wet using just your juices. You all knew it would be enough, you had felt them dripping down your thighs ages ago, you’re pretty sure she could slide right in with how turned on you were right now.

And she did. She didn't give you a single bit of warning before she forced the whole thing in at once, in one long thrust. You cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure tearing through you at the stretch. Your body shivered, and you instinctively tried to pull away. Natasha’s grip was firm on your waist as she stayed still.

"Shh, it’s okay," she murmured, her voice softer than anything she’d said all night. "Take a moment, detka (babe)." The tenderness in her words was a stark contrast to the intensity before, offering a brief respite that you hadn't realised you needed.

She waited, giving you time to adjust, but it was clear she waited too long when your hips began moving of their own volition. She watched with amusement. She could see that you were seeking more, but she wouldn't be moving until you used your words, even if desperate little whines were falling from your lips.

Plus, the vibrations from the whines only added extra pleasure for Wanda, so really, it was only you losing out. Natasha was having fun as always, and Wanda had you eating her cunt. They were on cloud nine while you were waiting to join them.

"Use your words," she scolded as she landed a spank to your right ass cheek. The sensation, though not particularly harsh, jolted through you, and you couldn’t contain the sharp cry that escaped your lips, especially with your ass still raw from Wanda’s earlier strikes. The sting felt amplified, every nerve on edge, and the sound you made was almost instinctual.

Natasha laughed at your reaction, and the sound only deepened the flush of heat spreading through you. It was as if her amusement made everything feel sharper, more intense.

Before you could fully register it, another blow landed, and this time, you jolted forward, and she harshly pulled you back until you had taken her to the hilt again. Yet another noise left your throat, a sound caught somewhere between a moan, a whine, and maybe even a sob.

You knew you needed to get the words out if you wanted more, but the difference between understanding that and actually doing it felt impossible when your brain was starting to melt from the feeling of Natasha’s cock buried inside you and Wanda’s soaking cunt on your face.

“Just use your words, and you can have what you want, printsessa (princess),” she coaxed, her tone both soft and demanding.

You huff, the frustration building up inside you. The words feel thick on your tongue, as if they’re stuck, unwilling to come out. You whine softly, a mixture of embarrassment and desperation creeping up in your chest.

Finally, you force the words out, each one scraping against the rawness inside you, “Please, Daddy. Please fuck me.”

"There we go, was that so hard?" she asked, her voice laced with a hint of satisfaction as you finally managed to answer her. You shook your head, ready to respond, but before the words could leave your mouth, she silenced you when she pulled out and slammed back in again, and again, she gave you no time to breathe, no time to recover. She just pounded relentlessly, and you just took it, mouth hanging open, eyes glazed over, moans tumbling from your lips.

“Is this what you wanted, hm?” Natasha’s voice was a low growl, laced with raw desire as she drove into your soaked cunt. “To be shown who owns you? Why, we own you, hm?”

“Mmm…shit, yes. Daddy!” You pant out, lifting your head from between Wanda’s thighs for a second. “Want you to use me, Daddy. Make me your toy, your doll. Just please, please don’t stop!” you end up practically screaming the last of that sentence as your desperation to finally get to the edge spikes.

Natasha groaned at your words, the sound escaping her before she could stop it. She took a deep breath, collecting herself as best she could, her composure slipping for just a moment before she regained control. “Then get your face back in your Mommy’s cunt and make her cum,” natasha ordered.

You followed her instructions, knowing that this was the path to getting what you desired. You poured all your focus into Wanda’s cunt, trying your best to push aside the mounting pressure building in your core.

Soon, Wanda's body language shifted, her legs quivering, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. A glistening sheen of sweat coated her skin, the evidence that she was close to her own high, clear to both you and Natasha. “Gonna cum,” she breathed, “doing so good, so close. So close!”

Then, without so much as another breath, she reached her peak, her head tilting back as a loud moan escaped her lips. You slowed, allowing her to ride out the wave, a lazy smile settling on her face. Her eyes fluttered shut, her entire body relaxing as she savoured the aftermath.

You turned your head, resting it gently on her thigh as her hand came to cradle your hair, her fingers brushing through it with a tender touch. Natasha was still fucking into you, but less intensely allowing you both a moment to settle. “Thank you, little one,” Wanda murmured softly, her voice full of warmth. “You did so well. Made Mommy feel so good,” she praised.

But the softness of the moment was shattered, as Natasha got impatient and gripped your hair, pulling you sharply upwards. Your body arched involuntarily, until your back was pressed against her front, and a high-pitched squeal escaped your lips as the strap inside you shifted almost painfully.

”Now, it’s time I show you why it is us that you belong to, whore,” Natasha growled lowly in your ear, her hand moving from your hair to around your throat as her thrusts became even harder, even deeper than before.

Each thrust left you breathless, your mind a haze as you surrendered completely to her, trusting that you were safe in her care. Your skin felt like it was on fire, every nerve alive with a sharp, buzzing heat, and your legs began to tremble.

“Taking my cock so well,” Natasha purred, her breath wet and hot against your ear as she watched your whole body writhe below her. She kept up the relentless rhythm, her free hand making its way across your stomach and down towards your clit. She applied pressure, rubbing small circles against your clit and you stopped even trying to contain yourself. You moaned and whined with no shame.

“Just like that,” she panted as she continued thrusting. “I know you can take it, I know you can! Good girl, Khoroshiy malen'kiy kotenok (good little kitten),” she mutters, focused on nothing but thrusting in and out, losing herself in the moment.

Natasha’s voice was starting to fray at the edges, laced with something raw and hungry, like she was losing the battle to keep control. There was a roughness to her tone now, not just command but craving, deep, aching and barely restrained.

She sounded desperate, and it did something to you, hearing her like that. Like she loved the way you needed her. The way your body trembled, the way every sound you made was a plea you didn’t know you were making.

Each second that passed, you slipped further, your need unravelling in waves, and she was watching it happen like it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

She squeezed your throat tighter, before gently kissing your hair, as if she couldn’t decide whether to break you apart or hold you together. You whimpered, and she let out a low groan in response, the kind that came from somewhere deep in her chest, and you felt the weight of her hunger press down on you like gravity.

“Look at you,” she breathed, her fingers still working your clit, but her other hand was gripping your neck, maybe hard enough to bruise. “Falling apart just for us.”

You tried to answer, but your voice cracked, your throat too tight from the relentless hold. Wanda was still in front of you, eyes heavy-lidded and warm, a flush on her cheeks that told you she was still riding the high you gave her.

She looked at you with such tenderness that it almost hurt. Her gaze was a soothing warmth, the kind that wrapped around you like a blanket, contrasting sharply with Natasha's burning fire. Together, they created a balance that made you feel like you were slowly melting, and you were.

“Breathe,” Wanda murmured, reaching out to brush her fingers across your cheek, her touch feather-light. “You’re doing so good, little one.”

You nodded weakly, eyes shimmering, tears slipping down your cheek, not from pain, not even from pleasure anymore, but from the sheer intensity of it all. From being seen, being wanted. Being claimed by these two beautiful women.

“I wanna keep you like this,” Natasha whispered, a promise and a threat all in one. “Forever desperate. Always Needy. Ours.”

And god, you wanted that. You wanted them, both of them. The roughness, the tenderness, the way they made you feel everything all at once until it overwhelmed you in the best possible way. You were already theirs, in every way that mattered.

There was a tremble in Natasha’s touch now, barely noticeable, but you felt it. She was shaking too. For all her dominance, her unwavering commands, she was just as lost in this as you were. And something about that made your chest ache.

You wanted to say something, anything, but your voice was buried under the moans she forced out of you with every brush of her fingers against your clit, every thrust of her hips.

You felt Wanda’s eyes still on you, soft and steady, grounding you again when Natasha felt like too much. That balance between them, between being cherished and undone, was addictive. You needed it like air.

“I love watching you fall apart,” Natasha mumbled, more to herself than you as she continued her merciless assault on your cunt. “Every time, you’re so fucking perfect like this.”

You couldn't help the way your breath hitched sharply in your throat, overwhelmed by her words. The position she had you in left you with nothing to grasp, no solid ground to hold on to as your body trembled beneath the weight of it all.

A stuttered gasp escaped your lips, your fingers digging into your own thighs, nails sinking deep into your skin in a frantic attempt to ground yourself, to find something to cling to.

Then Wanda reached for you, her touch gentle but insistent as she pried your hands free, interlacing her fingers with yours and holding tight. The moment her palms met yours, warmth flooded through you, grounding and steadying.

“We’ve got you, baby,” she whispered, voice thick with affection and something far deeper.

You managed to look at her, your eyes wide and wet, rolling back like you couldn’t focus. You were barely present, teetering on the edge, and they both saw it, even felt it. Your breathing was erratic, shallow, desperate, and your body gave itself away with every uncontrollable twitch. You were close. And they knew.

Wanda squeezed your hands, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles like she was trying to soothe the storm in you. Behind you, Natasha’s grip tightened with intent, and the pressure between their presence and your own unravelling senses pushed you that much nearer to the brink.

“Please, please! Please let me cum!” you finally sob, the words ripped from you like a confession. Your voice trembles, thick with desperation and barely contained emotion. You’re falling apart at the seams, and you know you need permission; you need it.

Every nerve in your body is stretched tight, every second dragging you closer to a release that feels like it might break you. “I can’t…I can’t hold on,” you whisper, breath hitching as your body quivers under their touch.

Natasha leaned in then, her breath hot against the back of your neck, lips barely grazing skin as she murmured low and deliberate, “Don’t hold back. Let go for us. Make a mess on my cock.”

The command coiled through you, and your whole body went taut, your back arching involuntarily as sensation surged through you, wild and uncontrollable. It didn’t feel like one thing; it felt like everything all at once. Pleasure, pain, safety, release. Like your chest was caving in and expanding at the same time. Like you were unravelling from the inside out, piece by piece, and yet being held together by the grip of their hands on your body, their voices grounding you in the chaos.

Wanda’s eyes were locked on yours, her expression soft and awestruck, her lips parted like she was witnessing something sacred. “That’s it, malyshka (Little One), just like that,” she praised. “So pretty for us, so perfect when you cum.”

And Natasha, still behind you, didn’t let up. Her movements steady, her voice low and encouraging, even as her hands tightened around you to hold you up so she could continue thrusting.

Your breath came in broken gasps, your hands trembling in Wanda’s grip. You weren’t sure if you were sobbing or moaning or both. Your body was shaking so hard it barely felt like it belonged to you anymore. “No more…I can’t. Too much!” you gasped, your words choked and breathless.

But despite your pleas, Natasha didn’t stop. She knew you, knew your limits, so she pushed you further, drawing out every last tremble, every shuddering breath, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure from your body until you were barely able to stay upright, your eyes fluttering closed, your body nothing more than deadweight in her hands.

Natasha knew then it was time to stop. With a care that contrasted the intensity moments before, she eased you back down, guiding your trembling form gently until your head came to rest in Wanda’s lap once more. You didn’t even think about it, you just nuzzled your cheek into the softness of her thigh, chasing warmth, comfort, the closeness you craved. Her hand was already there, running through your hair with slow, soothing strokes, her touch quieting the aftershocks still rippling through you.

Natasha settled beside you, her presence grounding in its own way, and began peppering your face with soft kisses, your temple, your jaw, the corner of your lips. “You’re so good for us,” she murmured, her voice a soft hush against your skin, barely louder than your unsteady breaths. “You took everything so well.”

She kissed you again and again until your breath hitched into something lighter, a small, surprised giggle escaping you. That sound, fragile and warm, made her smile. “I’m going to get you some water, okay?” she asked, fingers brushing your cheek.

You nodded, though your lower lip jutted out in a faint pout that made her laugh under her breath. “I’ll be back in two minutes, little one,” she promised, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before slipping away.

True to her word, Natasha returned quickly, a glass of water in one hand and a small bowl of fruit in the other. “Let’s get some of this in you, then we’ll relax a bit before we clean up, alright?” she offered, her tone gentle and coaxing.

You nodded again, still too dazed for speech, the world around you muffled by the sheer weight of everything you’d just felt. Wanda’s arms came around you as she helped you sit up against her chest, cradling you close.

Natasha took the glass and held it to your lips, careful and patient, feeding you sips of water and little pieces of fruit. You let yourself be taken care of, basking in the warmth of their attention, their quiet smiles, their steady hands.

In that quiet moment, your body drained, your soul exposed, you felt it envelop you completely. Fulfillment. Peace. Satisfaction. But above all, love. You knew, in that instant, that you would need nothing else for the rest of your life, as long as you were with them.

As if she’d plucked the thought right from your head, Natasha spoke up, her voice low and teasing, “Was that enough of a reason to tell the blonde whore to leave you alone?” There was a smirk playing on her lips, but her eyes still glinted with that possessive edge, like even now, hours later, the idea of someone else touching you made her jaw clench.

You let out a breathy laugh, your smile soft as your head rested against Wanda’s chest. “I would happily never speak to her again,” you murmured honestly. “Though you guys had nothing to worry about.”

Wanda leaned in, brushing her nose affectionately against your temple. “We know,” she said, her tone warm and reassuring. Then she chuckled, light and unbothered. “But if we didn’t get a little jealous sometimes, we wouldn’t have amazing sex like this, now would we?”

"I mean, we definitely still would," you teased, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, knowing full well that jealousy wouldn’t have been necessary for tonight's events to unfold; it just made everything that much more intense.

Their teasing wrapped around you like a blanket, warm and familiar, easing the last of the tension from your bones. Eventually, Natasha scooped you up without warning, ignoring your sleepy protest as she carried you to the bathroom. Wanda followed close behind, humming softly to herself as she gathered towels.

You took your time together, rinsing off the remnants of the night with gentle touches and sleepy smiles, stealing kisses between lathered hands and whispered reassurances. When you finally dried off and made your way back to bed, everything felt heavy with satisfaction.

You curled between them, limbs tangled together, the soft fabric of the clean sheets brushing against your skin. Whispered "I love you"s floated between you all, each one met with a kiss and an even tighter embrace, as if holding on could make this moment last forever.

Wrapped in their arms, safe between their steady breathing, you let your eyes flutter closed, your body at peace, your heart completely full.

---

While unplanned originally, there is now a part 2!

#natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff smut #wanda maximoff smut #mommy wanda #daddy natasha #wlw smut #marvel fanfic #marvel smut #Bishovapls Fics #our little one

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cbeargyu · 3 months ago

Text

virgin's debut

A friendship can’t be ruined by having sex… can it?

⊹₊⋆ pairing: best friend!haechan x fem!reader x love interest!jaehyun (slight)

⊹₊⋆ warnings: angst, fluff, smut, best friends to lovers trope, protected sex, unprotected sex (use protection pls), fingering, making out, nudes, slowburn, suggestive redaction, mild cursing, reader is a virgin lol, haechan isn't, English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance.

⊹₊⋆wc: 18,3K

READ THE PREVIEW [HERE]

Two weeks later

haechan sighed again, his chest heavy as he collapsed onto the couch. With both hands, he covered his face, fingers digging into his skin, trying to block out the past two weeks.

hyuck didn’t understand why there was this twisted mess of emotions swirling in his stomach, why his thoughts were so scattered, a jumble of "what ifs" and "should I's".

it had been two weeks since you made that insane proposition to him. haechan hadn’t talked much since then, just the occasional texts letting each other know when they’d left or entered the building they both lived in. the topic hadn’t come up, and you hadn’t pressured him either. but, god, it haunted him.

it was unthinkable. his values just wouldn’t allow it. sleeping with his best friend? never crossed his mind. but you—you weren’t just anyone. you’d been inseparable since high school. your sense of humor matched perfectly, and everyone knew the two of you were a damn force together. their friends noticed the bond, the way they both seemed to fit like puzzle pieces, always there for each other, even when they fought. like siblings, but with none of the blood ties.

that word, "siblings"—it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was strange that others saw them two like that. but they were okay with it. there were boundaries in their relationship, and crossing them was unforgivable.

of course, you were angelic. your bubbly personality and constant jokes made you irresistible. physically, you were gorgeous, though you were a bit shorter than him—way too short, maybe. you had black hair and an odd but cute bangs just above your eyebrows, something he liked to tease you about.

and yeah, you’d catch anyone’s eye. he wasn’t gonna lie—he’d had a crush on you when he first met you in high school. but over time, that romantic attraction faded as your friendship grew stronger.

maybe it was also the way you were so open with your thoughts—no filter, no shame—that when you asked him about sleeping together, it sounded completely natural to you. to him, though? It was a punch to the gut, a cold shower, a slap to the face. he was spinning, disoriented, trapped in what felt like a twisted fantasy—or maybe a nightmare.

for him, sex wasn’t a taboo subject. he’d lost his virginity at 17 to one of his many girlfriends, and talking about it was casual. hell, haechan didn’t even hold back when discussing the details of his past experiences with you. he’d even described how he’d "done it" in vivid detail—like it was nothing.

but you? you were different. you had dated three guys since high school, but none of those relationships lasted more than two months. so, you didn’t exactly know what it was like to be in a serious, long-term relationship. snd sex? It didn’t seem like a necessity in your life—at least not until now.

“I mean, when you’re dating someone romantically and nothing happens, i’d call that a win,” you said, casually munching on a slice of lemon tart.

haechan furrowed his brows, taking a sip of his coffee. “explain that.”

“it’s simple,” you shrugged. “because if they haven’t seen you naked, you can run into them on the street and not have to worry about that bastard seeing your ass.”

heck couldn’t help but laugh at your reasoning. “right, totally.”

you both chuckled, agreeing on that one. but he also knew, deep down, it wasn’t that simple for him. not anymore. he couldn’t ignore what was bubbling beneath the surface.

haechan felt a buzz in his pocket. his phone. the first class of the day was about to start, and he had to rush if he didn’t want to be late. he lived close to campus, just a five-minute walk, but the class was on the other side of the building.

but this situation? it was messing with his head so much that he couldn’t fall asleep until 3 AM these past two weeks. he grabbed his backpack and keys, about to head out when his phone buzzed again.

it was you. a message: “i’m heading to class, just leaving my apartment.”

haechan froze. he hadn’t expected you to text him now. his hand gripped the doorknob, but he didn’t open it. the thought of seeing you right now made his heart race. he wasn’t ready. not yet. he couldn’t just pretend like everything was fine.

"shit... y/n, what were you thinking?"

he sighed deeply. what was this? haechan could hear his own voice in his head, his thoughts like an endless storm. he couldn’t stop thinking about you—about what you had said, and about everything that had changed in such a short time. his stomach twisted. what would happen if he saw you now? could he face you? could he even be the same around you after what you had suggested?

he shook his head, hoping to clear his thoughts. He didn’t have the answers, but he knew one thing: this wasn’t going to be easy.

haechan let out a deep sigh, adjusting his scarf around his neck before stepping out of his apartment. he tried to calm himself, convincing himself that he could handle whatever came next. as if nothing had happened. as if he could just brush it off and pretend it hadn’t been weighing on him for the past two weeks.

but every time he thought about it, it made his chest tighten. that proposal of yours. the way you had looked at him, so casually, as if it were no big deal. he couldn’t get it out of his mind. he had always been the life of the party, the one to make jokes and laugh things off. but this—this was different. it gnawed at him like an insistent itch he couldn’t scratch, a question with no answer.

he made his way to campus, each step seeming faster than the last, but his thoughts were tangled in a mess of confusion and frustration. you hadn’t seemed bothered. if anything, you had acted like it was just another conversation. you hadn’t even tried to talk to him about it again, hadn’t pressured him. but that only made it worse. the silence between you both was deafening. you had sent that message, but it wasn’t the same. it was as if you had moved on without even thinking about it, while he was still stuck in the same place, drowning in his thoughts.

it was absurd. he was known for being the carefree one, the one who didn’t let anything get to him. but now? now he was a mess. the more he tried to convince himself that it was no big deal, the harder it was to believe it. you had said it so easily, like it was a joke, and yet it had shattered something inside him. the truth was, he didn’t know how to look at you anymore. he didn’t know how to face you after that. how could he? after everything?

haechan shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. his footsteps carried him toward the building, and the closer he got, the more his anxiety grew. he couldn’t avoid it forever. he’d have to see you eventually. the communication department wasn’t that big, and it seemed like the entire campus would lead him straight to you.

as he reached the entrance of the building, his alert system kicked in. you were probably inside already. and damn it, the thought of running into you—now, after everything—felt like a punch in the gut. you hadn’t even mentioned it again, hadn’t tried to force a conversation. yet he could feel it. the tension. the distance. how had it gotten to this? why did he feel so… disconnected?

he stopped for a second, hand resting against the doorframe, trying to breathe. but it was like everything had changed. nothing was simple anymore. he had been your best friend for so long, but now? now it felt like he was walking on eggshells, unsure of what would break first.

“hey.”

a light punch to his back snapped him out of his daze, and the blood immediately drained from his face. that voice—he couldn’t mistake it, not even if a million voices tried to mimic it. His breath hitched, and he turned around so fast it almost hurt.

there you were. small, as always. a knitted beanie sitting snug over your head, that— ridiculous—fringe barely brushing the tops of your brows, framing your delicate face in a way that made his throat dry. a long grey coat hung from your shoulders, swallowing you slightly, and your black boots clicked softly against the floor. everything about you looked… normal. the way you looked at him, the way you smiled, even the casual punch to his back.

physical contact.

that word echoed in his head like a siren. he quickly shook the thought away, locking his focus on the paper Starbucks bag dangling from your left hand. maybe you’d stopped by the café on the way. maybe you ordered delivery. maybe someone gave it to you. maybe—god, he needed to stop. the hamster in his brain was doing flips, and he wanted to knock some sense into himself.

you held the bag out toward him.

haechan just stared at it for a second, until you raised your eyebrows, shook it again, and snapped, “are you gonna take it or what?! geez, i brought it for you and you’re just standing there looking at it like an idiot.”

your expression twisted in mock annoyance, brows curved upward—but oddly, he felt the tightness in his chest ease a little.

reluctantly, haechan reached out and took the bag, brushing his fingers against yours for a second too long. he tried not to react, but his mind was a chaotic storm. He couldn’t help but look at you—really look.

had you always looked like this? that coat hugged your waist just enough. the shape of your figure was something he never let himself notice before. and your chest… jesus. it wasn’t like you’d suddenly changed, but it felt like someone had wiped the fog off his glasses. He was seeing you differently. entirely.

and that terrified him.

he lowered his eyes quickly, too aware of how warm his ears were getting.

“thanks,” he mumbled, voice a little hoarse.

“no problem,” you replied, glancing around casually. “i figured you might skip breakfast again, so…”

you trailed off with a small shrug, stuffing your hands into your coat pockets. haechan tried to smile, but his stomach was tangled in impossible knots.

haechan took another deep breath as he tried to collect himself, shifting the weight of the Starbucks bag from one hand to the other. he looked at you, trying to ignore the pull in his chest—the sudden awareness of every little detail about you. there was a tension he couldn’t shake off, something that sat heavy in his stomach.

you seemed to notice his distracted state and leaned against the wall, your usual easygoing posture, the same as always, except now, he couldn’t stop noticing how you looked in that oversized coat and those boots. he was spiraling again, caught in the thought of you.

“so…” you broke the silence, “i’ve been kind of swamped lately. working on this branding project for a client. it’s been a pain, though. my computer decided to die on me right when I needed it most.”

haechan raised an eyebrow, his mind snapping back to reality. “really? you didn’t tell me about it. why didn’t you ask for help? I mean, i know a thing or two about fixing computers. I could’ve helped you.”

you shrugged, a small, nonchalant smile playing at the corners of your lips. “nah, i called taeyong instead. he’s better with that stuff.”

there was a sharp tug in haechan’s chest. he hadn’t expected that. the knot in his stomach tightened, a wave of discomfort washing over him. taeyong? really?

he tried to laugh it off, but there was something bitter in his tone as he asked, “taeyong? why him? i thought you knew I was good with that kind of stuff.”

“yeah, well,” you quipped with a raised eyebrow, “taeyong just happened to be the first one I thought of. besides, he’s pretty quick with tech stuff.”

haechan’s smile was tight, and his stomach churned. he told himself it was nothing. he was being stupid. but why didn’t you ask him? he had always been there when your tech failed. it felt… weird. almost like you didn’t need him anymore. but, of course, he didn’t voice any of that. instead, he played it off, trying to act casual.

“sure, sure,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. he was so not handling this well. the thought of you asking someone else for help left him unsettled, and he hated how much it bothered him. It was irrational, but he couldn't shake it.

you noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way he pulled back just a little. your smile softened as you leaned forward slightly, breaking the silence again.

“hey,” you said gently, “i’m sorry if it upset you. it wasn’t meant to make you feel left out, really.”

haechan quickly looked up, trying to look unfazed. “nah, it’s fine. I mean, it's not like i’m the only one you can ask for help, right?” he joked, but there was an edge to his voice that didn’t quite match the tone of his words.

you raised your eyebrows, a knowing look in your eyes. “you’re acting like a total prude right now,” you said, a smirk forming. “didn’t you used to tell me all the crazy stuff you did with jang chanmi back in high school? and now the topic of helping a friend with a computer is freaking you out?”

haechan blinked, taken aback. the mention of chanmi, especially in the context of your teasing, was enough to snap him out of his spiraling thoughts. he groaned, running a hand through his hair, trying to laugh it off. “well, that was different, okay? that was high school stuff.”

you chuckled, leaning back against the wall, clearly amused by his discomfort. “oh, come on. don’t tell me you’re too shy to talk about tech problems now. you used to explain every position you tried with her—like it was a lesson in geometry or something.”

haechan let out an exasperated sigh, not sure whether to be embarrassed or grateful for the way you were managing to cut through the tension. he couldn’t stop the blush creeping up his neck, and he cursed under his breath. of all the people, you had to be the one to make him feel like a damn fool.

“well, that was different, okay? It’s... it’s not like i’m comfortable talking about that stuff with you anymore, alright?” he almost winced at his words. the last thing he wanted was to make it sound like he couldn’t be himself with you.

you tilted your head slightly, your tone playful but with a hint of mischief. “don’t worry, though. I just asked taeyong to help with the computer. i didn’t make the same proposal to him that i made to you.”

haechan’s eyes went wide. he froze, his face instantly flushing. did you really just say that? the sudden wave of heat rushing to his face felt like he was on fire. his brain scrambled for words, but all he could manage was a surprised, “wait, what?”

you laughed softly, clearly enjoying the effect you had on him.

“you’re scared i’m gonna bring it up, aren’t you?”

“what? i—no, i’m fine,” he said too quickly, almost defensively. “just tired. you know, early class. cold outside. normal stuff.”

you didn’t say anything right away. just looked at him with that calm gaze of yours, the one that could read people like open books.

that hit him harder than expected. he flinched. swallowed. you tilted your head slightly.

“it’s okay,” you said, voice even. “if it made you uncomfortable… we don’t have to talk about it. ever. i’m not gonna ambush you or corner you or expect anything.”

haechan blinked. your tone was so mature, so measured—like you’d thought about this. like you knew what it had done to him.

“it was dumb of me,” you continued with a small smile. “or maybe not dumb, just… bold. and i get it, you didn’t sign up for that. so, if you want to forget it ever happened, consider it forgotten. clean slate.”

he didn’t know what to say. a hundred emotions jostled in his chest, fighting for space. gratitude. relief. guilt. and something else entirely—something heavier and harder to name.

because despite everything, despite the panic and confusion and awkward silences, you were still here. talking to him. offering him coffee. smiling at him like you always did.

but something had changed. he saw it in the way he noticed your lips when they moved. in the way his eyes lingered a beat too long on the curve of your body. in the way his mind kept circling back to that question you’d asked two weeks ago.

and the worst part?

haechan didn’t know if he wanted to go back to before.

before everything had shifted. before he started noticing all these things about you—things he had never allowed himself to see. he wasn’t sure if it was fear of the unknown or something else entirely, but the thought of things returning to how they were felt… difficult.

“anyway,” you said, standing up from the railing and brushing your hands off as if to clear the air between you. "i’ll see you later. don’t overthink it, alright?"

the casual way you said it made his chest tighten. he could feel that something was still unspoken, that there was more you weren’t saying, but he didn’t press. you were good at hiding what you truly felt, always had been.

haechan tried to push the conversation out of his mind as he entered his class on media studies. he sat down, pulling his notes in front of him and attempting to focus, but his thoughts were all over the place. his brain kept circling back to your words—had you meant everything you said? Was it really that simple for you?

the ice-cold americano you’d brought him sat on the edge of his desk. Its perfect arrangement, just the way he always liked it, made his chest tighten for reasons he couldn’t explain. he watched as droplets of water gathered on the glass, slowly tracing their way down to pool at the bottom.

he was distracted. but even more than that, he was feeling something he couldn’t quite name. his gaze wandered over the cold surface, the way the water clung to the glass—his mind drifting to you. to your smile. to the way your voice had lingered in his thoughts.

he imagined, for a moment, what it would be like if those droplets were slipping along your skin instead. He didn’t want to think about it, but his mind had other plans. every thought that surfaced seemed to lead back to you—the curve of your lips, the way you had looked at him just before leaving.

his pulse quickened, a wave of heat rising to his face. he snapped back to reality, but the blush was already creeping up his neck. "what the hell am i doing?" he muttered under his breath, quickly looking down at his notes again, trying to focus. his mind refused to cooperate. why was he thinking about this now? why was his body reacting like this?

he could feel the tension rising, like a knot tightening in his stomach. he had never been this aware of you before—not like this. and the worst part was, he didn’t know how to stop it.

you buried your face in your hands, heart racing, panic rising in your chest. what had you done?

the proposal you made to haechan wasn’t random—not by a long shot. It came from somewhere raw, impulsive, and aching. you’d convinced yourself he would say yes. no hesitation. no second thoughts. that’s what your friends told you, right?

"guys are easy. especially when it comes to sex. they’re always down," yeri had said with a laugh, trying to encourage you. “come on, it’s haechan. he jokes about that stuff all the time.”

and maybe that was the worst part. because you believed her. you judged your best friend through a lens of assumption, reducing him to some stereotype, thinking he’d just say yes because he was a guy. because he was him.

but he didn’t.

and now you knew—you had judged him so, so wrong. haechan wasn’t like the guys in those stories your friends always told. he wasn’t thoughtless. he wasn’t careless. he was kind. and considerate. and the look on his face after your question… you could still see it. confused. hurt. maybe even disappointed. not because you asked, but because he didn’t know how to respond without breaking something between you.

the guilt clawed its way up your throat.

you hadn’t asked him just for the sake of it, either. it wasn’t some random experiment. it was desperation. because ever since last fall, ever since he came into the picture, something in you had changed.

jung jaehyun.

a senior in the visual arts department. tall, graceful, and unfairly good-looking—like he’d walked straight out of a perfume ad in a fashion magazine. chiseled jawline, smooth voice, perfect smile. the kind of man who turned heads in every hallway he walked through. girls whispered about him constantly—rumors, fantasies, stories that may or may not have been true. he was confident, magnetic, dangerous in that way only people who know they’re desired can be.

and of course, you weren’t immune.

you saw him at a few parties, caught glimpses of him sketching in the studio, his sleeves rolled up and headphones in, and felt a pull you didn’t fully understand. it wasn’t love. It wasn’t even a crush. it was curiosity. lust. a hunger you didn’t recognize as your own until it became too loud to ignore.

your friends told you to go for it. "just hook up with him," they said. "get it over with." but you couldn’t. you didn’t have the experience, the confidence, the… proof that you could be the kind of girl someone like jaehyun might want.

so you turned to the only person you trusted. the only one who made you feel safe, unjudged, seen.

haechan.

and now you’d hurt him.

you hadn’t just crossed a line—you’d shattered the trust he’d always given you so freely. all because you were afraid. because you wanted to prove something. because you thought he’d just say yes.

but he didn’t.

now you sat in the middle of your typography and composition class, surrounded by the soft clatter of keyboards and the low hum of your professor’s lecture, your laptop open in front of you and your adobe illustrator file untouched. letters floated on your screen in random positions, but your brain couldn’t form a single coherent thought. you weren’t even sure what the assignment was supposed to be.

your body was there—but your mind was somewhere else entirely. caught in the swirl of embarrassment, regret, and confusion. a storm of emotion you didn’t know how to calm. all you could think was: what have I done?

it had been a week since that conversation. on the surface, everything seemed fine—like a reset button had been pressed. you and haechan still exchanged jokes, shared snacks, and sat next to each other in class. but underneath the laughter and casual glances, there was a strange hollowness, like the two of you had become actors reciting old lines in a play that didn’t fit anymore. robotically pretending the elephant in the room didn’t exist, even though its shadow loomed over every interaction. after all, everything had already been said, hadn’t it?

still, something was off.

haechan hadn’t hooked up with anyone since then. it wasn’t for lack of trying—he’d gone out, flirted, danced—but each time, his mind wandered back to you. and it wasn’t just idle thoughts. no, it was worse.

every night that week, he'd woken up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, heart racing, and a painful hardness straining against his boxers. dreams of you—wearing almost nothing, bent in suggestive positions, whispering filthy things in his ear, inviting him to taste you, to touch you—played on a loop in his subconscious. but right when he was about to finally reach you, melt into you, he’d wake up frustrated and breathless. left with no choice but to slip his hand under the waistband and relieve the aching pressure. for serotonin. for oxytocin. for sanity.

now, it was saturday night and he was stuck at work.

the burger place was dead quiet. maybe it was the cold snap that had settled over the city, keeping everyone snuggled up in their homes instead of venturing out for greasy fast food. Haechan didn’t mind, really. he was sick of putting on his fake retail voice—“welcome! Fries with that?”—and dealing with people who didn’t say thank you. right now, he was working the closing shift, wearing the stiff black uniform cap and flipping patties that hissed on the flat top grill. the whole place smelled of grilled beef, fryer oil, and cheap pickles. his coworkers were goofing off while mopping the floor and stacking chairs, and haechan, while half-listening to their jokes, was just counting the minutes till he could clock out and go back to bed.

that was when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

unknown number.

haechan hesitated. he barely ever answered unknown numbers, but something in his gut told him to pick up.

“hello?”

“HAECHAN!”

a girl’s voice. loud, panicked. He blinked.

“…who is this?”

“it’s seojung—y/n’s friend. you probably don’t remember me. we met, like, once.”

oh. right. you had sent him the numbers of your friends months ago, just in case. he’d never saved them.

“yeah, uh—what’s up?”

“it’s y/n,” she said quickly.

the emergency button in his brain went off.

“what happened? is she okay?! did something happen to her?”

“well—kind of?”

apparently, you’d gone out for a girls’ night. a little bar in the city downtown. everything was fine, until you’d gotten verydrunk. so drunk, in fact, you couldn’t even hold your head up, slurring nonsense, sobbing into seojung’s shoulder.

haechan grabbed his jacket before she even finished explaining.

“she kept saying… uh, really weird stuff,” seojung added nervously. “like—please don’t be mad, okay?—but she was screaming in the middle of the street that she was gonna die a virgin because her own best friend refused to help her.”

haechan stopped dead in his tracks, blinking in disbelief. “she said what?”

“i know! i was like, girl, stop embarrassing yourself! but she kept going. she even tried to climb on a statue to do a dramatic monologue or something, it was chaos.”

the line went quiet for a second.

“anyway,” seojung continued, “we can’t take her to the dorms—they don’t let us bring people in after curfew, and she’s way too far gone to be alone. you’re the only person she might listen to. can you come get her?”

“i’m on my way,” haechan said without hesitation, already sprinting out the back door. he didn’t even clock out. his coworkers just watched in stunned silence as he bolted into the freezing night air, hoodie half-zipped, hair disheveled, heart pounding.

he didn’t know exactly what he’d find when he got there.

but part of him was already bracing for it.

despite the cold weather, you had decided to wear a short velvet dress, sheer black tights, and an oversized puffer jacket that looked hilariously disproportionate on you—but also kind of cute. haechan blinked twice when he realized the jacket was his. the one he’d been looking for since last week. seeing you in it made his chest do something strange, tight and warm, like a coil winding in his ribs.

you looked disoriented, your makeup slightly smudged, your eyes glassy but still sparkly. your long legs peeked out from under the hem of the dress, knees wobbling as you leaned heavily on seojung for support. Behind her were yeri and jimin—both trying to look casual but clearly avoiding haechan’s gaze.

“sorry for calling so suddenly,” seojung said with an awkward smile, shifting nervously on her feet. “we didn’t know who else to call…”

“she just kept saying your name,” yeri added, crossing her arms.

“she’s been… emotional,” jimin muttered, eyes darting to the side. “also—sorry for… earlier stuff.”

the three girls looked anywhere but at haechan. there was something stiff in the air, a subtle frost behind their polite words. they knew what had happened. they knew he’d rejected you.

“thanks for looking after her,” haechan said simply, ignoring the tension as he gently took your arm. you mumbled something about “fuck friendship” and “i’ll die a virgin anyway,” making all three girls wince in embarrassment.

after quick goodbyes, they left hurriedly. haechan helped you into a cab, the inside warm and dimly lit, smelling faintly of peppermint and old leather.

“address?” the driver asked.

haechan rattled it off. the driver glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled.

“cute couple,” he said.

“oh—we’re not—” haechan began, but the man cut him off.

“young love. must be nice,” he chuckled. “leaving work in the middle of your shift to take care of your drunk girlfriend. that’s real devotion, son.”

haechan opened his mouth to correct him again, but then—

“HE REJECTED ME!” you suddenly shouted, head lolling dramatically to the side. “I asked him to have sex with me and he SAID NO.”

yhe cab fell into a stunned silence.

“…ah,” the driver finally said. “one-sided love, then.”

haechan wanted to crawl out of the moving car and disappear into the road. yhe driver shook his head sympathetically.

“you’re making a mistake, boy,” he said gravely. “a pretty lady like this? she won’t wait forever. you two already look like a couple. all that’s missing is the kiss.”

haechan glanced down at you, now slumped against his side, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. your makeup was a mess, your breath reeked of gin and lime, and you were clutching the hem of his jacket like it was your last lifeline.

and somehow, even like this, you looked heartbreakingly beautiful.

haechan stepped out of the taxi and paid the driver, the man's words echoing in his head like a song stuck on repeat. “you’re letting a good girl slip away…” he shouldn’t care what some stranger thought, but there was something about the way the guy said it — confident, certain — that made the sentence stick like honey to the roof of his mouth.

he turned around just in time to see you stepping out of the cab in your short dress, sheer tights hugging your legs, and a massive oversized jacket drowning your frame. his oversized jacket.

his breath caught a little. you looked both sexy and soft — long, graceful legs out in the cold, but your face flushed from alcohol and framed by the collar of his jacket. somehow, even in that state, you looked... perfect.

“you know where we are, right?” he asked gently, offering you his hand.

you nodded lazily, squinting at the familiar entrance of your apartment complex. but instead of walking toward it, you turned to him, a sly, sleepy smile playing on your lips.

“i don’t wanna go to my apartment,” you said, voice low and vaguely suggestive.

haechan blinked. “you need to sleep. you’re drunk.”

“i don’t wanna go to my apartment,” you repeated, this time slower, like you were daring him to challenge you. “i lost my keys.”

“you what?” his voice cracked as he stared at you in disbelief. “where the hell are you gonna sleep then?”

you tilted your head, your eyes glinting under the streetlight. “with you.”

silence.

haechan’s mouth opened slightly, the color rushing to his face like fire. he stammered, trying to find the words — to remind you of your promise, of how you said you'd drop this whole thing and start over.

but before he could say a word, you leaned forward with a groan and threw up directly into a nearby bush.

“oh, shit—” he muttered, rushing to hold you. he gathered your hair, gently rubbed your back, whispering reassurances under his breath. “okay, okay, it’s fine… just let it out…”

eventually, you straightened up, eyes glassy, cheeks damp from the cold wind. he sighed and wrapped an arm around you, leading you toward his place — your weight half-slumped against him.

inside, the warmth of his small apartment wrapped around you both. he carefully sat you on the couch and disappeared into the kitchen, filling a glass of water and setting a tea kettle on the stove.

you watched him in silence for a moment before breaking it. “i know what i said,” you murmured. “About letting it go. About forgetting. but i can’t. i literally can’t.”

he froze, slowly turning toward you.

“i feel like a hormonal teenager,” you laughed bitterly, wiping your mouth. “I keep thinking about you. about what i asked you. about what it would be like.”

“y/n…” he warned gently, setting the water beside you.

“i have this thing,” you blurted. “with my sunbae. jung jaehyun. he’s… god, he’s stupidly hot. tall, broad shoulders, perfect hair, every girl wants him. he only sleeps with older women — the kind who know what they’re doing. and I just… i don’t want to disappoint him.”

haechan’s expression darkened, not with anger, but something deeper. “so you wanted to use me as practice?” he asked, voice low.

“i’m not trying to use you,” you said, firm but vulnerable. “you’re my best friend. i trust you more than anyone. and you’re… you’re good at it.”

haechan blinked. “what?”

“you’re good in bed.”

he narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “and how the hell do you know that?”

you gave a half-smirk. “you talk about it all the time, remember? bragging about your conquests like a walking NSFW podcast. you made it sound like you practically invented foreplay.”

haechan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “god, I was joking half the time—”

“but that’s exactly why i asked you in the first place,” you cut in, locking eyes with him. “because there’s no one else i’d trust for something like this. and let’s be honest—” you tilted your head with a teasing smile. “it’s not like you’ve gotten laid recently either.”

his jaw tensed. “i’m not desperate for sex, y/n.”

“oh, really?” you raised an eyebrow. “so those midnight jerk-off sessions because of your dreams about me are just… what? a new coping mechanism?”

his face burned red. “how do you—?!”

“i may have heard a little something.” you sipped your water dramatically. “you’re not as quiet as you think.”

“i hate you,” he muttered under his breath, turning away to hide the growing smirk on his lips.

“no, you don’t.”

you stood up slowly, unsteady but serious, your eyes fixed on his. “if we did this… it would be safe. familiar. no weirdness. just… two people helping each other out.”

“that’s not what this is about for you though, is it?” he said, voice low.

you looked away for a moment before answering. “no. It’s not just that. i want to feel… wanted. i want to be good at this. and yeah… I want to impress jaehyun. but i also… want it to be with someone who won’t hurt me.”

and for a moment, everything was quiet. the only sound was the water boiling and both your hearts pounding.

he exhaled sharply, frustrated — but not just at you. At himself. At this whole ridiculous night.

then, haechan stepped closer.

he leaned over, hands gripping the back of the couch, caging you in — his face mere inches from yours. you froze. Your breath hitched. your fingers clenched around the glass.

then, without thinking, you kissed him.

it was messy. desperate. tasting of beer and heat and something reckless.

he kissed you back — just for a second — his hand cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek. but then he pulled away suddenly, breath heavy, pupils blown wide.

“you’re drunk,” he said, voice hoarse. “i'm not kissing you like this.”

you blinked up at him, breathless.

“but if i weren’t?” you whispered.

he didn’t say anything.

but the fire in his eyes gave you all the answer you needed.

and that silence? it was louder than anything either of you had said all night.

that night, haechan slept on the couch, buried under a mess of blankets. you, on the other hand, took his bed — warm with freshly changed sheets and a white oversized t-shirt that smelled like him. he’d also lent you a hoodie for the cold, soft and worn from use.

when he asked if you'd prefer to sleep with the door shut for privacy, you shook your head and left it cracked open. Just slightly. maybe it was a silent invitation. maybe a part of you hoped he'd come in.

but he didn’t.

haechan's self-control was ironclad. he wouldn't touch you — not like that, not when you were drunk, no matter how much you asked. and you had asked. desperately.

by morning, your head throbbed with a brutal hangover. the light leaking through the blinds was cruel and unforgiving. still half-asleep, you blinked at the side table — a glass of water and a neatly placed pill waited for you. of course he remembered.

you padded out into the living room, barefoot, limbs aching. the smell of warm broth hit you first. then the quiet hum of a streamer's voice coming from his computer.

haechan sat hunched at the small dining table, glasses perched on his nose, hair slightly tousled from sleep. he was watching some gaming livestream, lazily slurping noodles from a bowl of ramen. a small pot sat between you, steam still curling up, and beside it — another bowl.

you noticed the sausage in the pot had been sliced perfectly small, just the way you liked. he always remembered little things like that.

your stomach twisted, not with hunger, but something softer. deeper.

without saying anything, haechan patted the seat beside him. you moved toward him slowly, like you were walking through a dream. he didn’t look at you — just kept his eyes on the screen as he grabbed the second bowl, carefully ladling ramen into it while glancing back and forth between the pot and your bowl to avoid making a mess.

you let out a quiet, involuntary giggle.

he glanced up at you then — his lips curved ever so slightly. and that's when you noticed it: his thick-rimmed glasses. the ones he only wore when he was deep into gaming or editing something late at night. they made him look effortlessly cool. casual. comfortable.

and stupidly handsome.

“thanks,” you murmured, your voice still hoarse from sleep and dehydration. “for… last night. picking me up.”

he didn’t respond at first — just nodded once, still watching the screen. no mention of the kiss. no mention of your drunken confession. nothing. just silence.

the elephant between you had never been bigger.

you glanced sideways again and noticed the dark circles under his eyes — deep and tired. he’d barely slept.

“you okay?” you asked gently.

“i’m fine,” he said, pushing up his glasses with a knuckle. “you had it worse.”

you looked down at the bowl in front of you, steam rising like it was trying to fill the silence. you slurped a noodle quietly, chewing.

that’s when you noticed something else.

the shape of his jaw as he ate — sharp, cut like stone under soft skin. you’d seen him eat ramen a hundred times, but this was the first time you really looked. the way his throat moved when he swallowed. the subtle flex of his neck. his collarbone peeking from under his hoodie. even the slope of his nose and the way his glasses rested perfectly above his cheekbones.

he wasn’t just your best friend. he was… really attractive.

painfully so.

and that realization made your stomach clench — not from the hangover, but from something dangerously close to want.

you sat there, fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic of the ramen bowl, the heat grounding you as your mind spun.

“hey…” your voice came out soft, hesitant. “about last night—”

the sound of his chopsticks hitting the table made you jump. it wasn’t loud, but it was enough. enough to cut through the quiet and slice the conversation before it could begin.

haechan didn’t look at you. his jaw tensed as he stared at the table, hands clenched loosely on either side of his bowl.

you froze. unsure.

he inhaled through his nose, controlled, calculated. then, finally, he spoke. “if you’re done eating… maybe you should call a locksmith. for your apartment.”

your stomach dropped.

just like that, the warmth left the room. or maybe it was still there, but it couldn’t reach you anymore.

“o-oh.” you blinked. “yeah… right. my keys.”

he stood up slowly, not rushed, just… distant. like something inside him had gone cold.

you watched him close the laptop screen with one hand, then gather his bowl and yours, moving with quiet efficiency. not meeting your gaze once.

you couldn’t move. couldn’t speak. the shift was too sharp, too sudden. it left you sitting there like a statue, hands still wrapped around the now lukewarm bowl.

“i’ll wash these,” he muttered, almost to himself.

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. your throat was tight, words caught somewhere between confusion and guilt. you hadn’t meant to ruin the morning. hadn’t meant to push.

but there it was again — the elephant. bigger than ever.

and this time, haechan had chosen to turn his back on it.

you stood up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor. he was already at the sink, rinsing the dishes like it was any other sunday. like nothing happened. like you hadn’t kissed him. like you hadn’t confessed the things that had been burning you from the inside out.

but your eyes were stuck on his back. the slope of his shoulders. the way his hoodie clung slightly at the waist. and still — that feeling. that gnawing ache deep in your chest.

he was right there. and still, he felt so far away.

“haechan…” your voice barely carried.

he didn’t turn around.

you bit your lip. hard. maybe you had crossed a line. maybe he was just being kind last night, and you mistook it for something else. maybe—

“i need to shower,” he said abruptly, setting the last plate down. “you can use my phone to call someone.”

and then he was gone, the bathroom door closing with a click that echoed too loudly in the silence he left behind.

you were alone again.

but this time, it hurt more than it should’ve.

your phone was still dead.

you hadn’t charged it since last night, and at this point, it didn’t matter. you weren’t exactly in the mood to speak to anyone else anyway.

you curled up on the couch, pulling your knees to your chest, arms wrapping tightly around them like they could somehow protect you from the weight pressing on your chest. you stared blankly ahead, trying to piece together what went wrong.

you hadn’t meant to make things weird. you hadn’t meant to cross a line. and yet… you did. and now, all of it felt like a mistake unraveling at your feet.

you chewed on your lip, eyes unfocused.

was it when you asked to stay with him? or when you told him the truth — that you couldn’t stop thinking about him, that you wanted to learn with him because you trusted him? maybe it was the kiss. that moment, hazy and laced with beer, when you leaned in and felt his lips move against yours. he kissed you back. you were sure of it.

but now… maybe it wasn’t enough. or maybe it was too much.

the sound of the bathroom door opening pulled you from your spiral. you looked up, heart stuttering in your chest.

haechan stepped out, steam drifting behind him in lazy clouds. his black t-shirt clung to his skin slightly, still damp from the shower. his sweatpants sat low on his hips, and around his neck hung a white towel, which he used intermittently to ruffle through his damp, dark hair.

he looked surprised to see you still there.

his expression flattened quickly, going unreadable. “you still haven’t called the locksmith?”

you didn’t answer.

he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, towel dragging with it. “y/n…”

but you were already crying.

your face was turned away, but he saw the tremble in your shoulders, the way your hands gripped tighter around your legs. the soft sound of you trying not to make a sound.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of your own words. “i ruined everything.”

he went quiet.

“i should’ve never suggested that,” you continued, barely audible. “i didn’t mean to treat you like you’re some— some kind of object. i was just thinking about myself. about what i wanted. and that was selfish. i wasn’t thinking about you.”

he still didn’t move.

“i just—” you swallowed thickly, lifting your head to look at him through blurry eyes. “i wasn’t trying to use you. i swear. i… i just trust you. you’re my best friend. and maybe i took that too far. i just… i feel like i’ve messed everything up.”

you laughed bitterly. “you didn’t even have to say anything. your face this morning said it all.”

for a second, haechan just looked at you. his gaze scanned your face — your tear-stained cheeks, your trembling mouth. the regret swimming in your eyes.

then he sighed and walked closer. dropped the towel onto the coffee table. crouched down in front of you.

“you’re not the only one who’s confused,” he said, voice softer now. “and yeah, maybe last night was messy. maybe we said shit we weren’t supposed to. but… you didn’t ruin anything.”

your breath hitched.

he leaned in, resting a hand gently on your knee.

“you’re not selfish for wanting something. and you’re not using me. i know you.” his voice dropped a bit, more intimate now. “maybe that’s why it’s so hard to pretend it didn’t affect me.”

you blinked. “…what?”

he looked up at you from where he knelt. “you said… kissing could help calm you down. remember?”

your eyes widened.

he tilted his head, a small, careful smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth.

“so… if it helps…” he leaned closer, letting his hand trail up your thigh. “i could kiss you again.”

you stopped breathing.

your lips parted, unsure of what to say. but your body moved before your brain could catch up. you leaned in.

he met you halfway.

this kiss was different. slower. more controlled. still tasting faintly of mint and something warm, like cinnamon from the tea he’d made earlier. his hand cradled your cheek this time, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t hungry.

but it burned.

and then he pulled back, just barely.

“but only when you’re sober,” he whispered against your lips, breath warm. “only when you really mean it.”

you nodded slowly, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

“okay,” you breathed. “okay.”

and for now — that was enough.

a few weeks passed.

you had finally gotten a replacement set of keys and returned to your apartment. that weekend was a blur of mundane things—scrubbing your bathroom floor until your arms ached, catching up on overdue sketches, finishing the last pages of an assignment you’d been dodging for weeks. you needed the quiet. the stillness. a chance to feel like yourself again.

but even in your own bed, the cold side of the sheets reminded you of that one night you hadn’t slept alone.

the kiss with haechan had, strangely, softened everything between you. the awkwardness melted away like snow on sunlit pavement. now, you were gentler with each other. your laughter came easier. your glances lingered longer. but the elephant—the weight of what that kiss meant—never left. it simply learned to sit quietly in the corner.

on tuesday afternoon, you were leaving the print room when you nearly ran into jaehyun.

"whoa, careful, pretty girl," he said, catching your elbow with a hand that felt way too steady, too confident.

“sorry,” you chuckled, tucking your hair behind your ear. jaehyun always looked like he belonged in some magazine spread—jaw carved from stone, lashes too long for someone that smug, silver rings glinting against his fingers like he knew where the light would hit.

“what brings you over here?” he asked, eyeing your sketch tube slung across your shoulder.

“professor cho. needed some stuff for his class. he’s on his power trip again.”

“classic,” he smirked. “listen… we’re having something this friday. low-key. not one of those packed, flyer-in-the-bathroom kind of things. just a curated crowd. people who get it.”

your brow arched. “curated?”

he laughed. “yeah. you know. people with taste.”

you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

“you should come,” he added, stepping a little closer. “might help with that tension you’ve been carrying around.”

“what tension?” you teased.

he leaned in, eyes flicking down your face. “the kind that makes you think too much. sometimes you gotta stop overanalyzing and just feel it.”

“feel what?”

his smile was maddening. “depends who you end up with.”

you laughed it off, but your cheeks were already warm. maybe he was flirting. maybe he wasn’t. either way, the idea sat in your chest like a dare.

you thought about it all the way back to your place. and later that night, lying on your bed staring at the ceiling, you let yourself wonder what it’d be like to… try. to stop guessing what sex felt like and actually find out. you didn’t want to rush it. but you didn’t want to keep floating in uncertainty either.

and somewhere else on campus, haechan couldn’t stop thinking about you either.

he was standing in the backroom of the burger place, mirror fogged with steam, face damp and flushed from another rush. and there you were. again. in his head. like you’d carved a space he couldn’t seal shut.

he felt pathetic.

like some teenage boy discovering self-pleasure for the first time. except it wasn’t discovery—it was addiction. every night, without fail, his body woke him up with a pulse he couldn’t ignore. his hand would slide beneath the waistband of his sweats, his breath shallow, mind full of you. always you.

and god, those lips.

maybe he should’ve never kissed you.

but the second your mouth touched his, something inside him had snapped. like it had been waiting for that moment all along. you’d kissed him with a kind of messy urgency—too fast, too eager, bumping teeth before finding a rhythm. but then came the softness. the unspoken need. the trust. you had tasted like beer and breath mints and something far too intimate for a one-time thing.

now, he couldn’t un-feel it.

behind the counter, he’d zone out mid-shift, hands wet from dishes, and suddenly he’d remember the way you had moaned into his mouth. the way you had gripped his hoodie like you were holding on for dear life. the way your body had melted into his.

he couldn’t stop picturing you in that black dress, jacket slipping off your shoulder, legs crossed like a sin. or the way your lips had parted when you looked at him like you needed more. like you wanted him.

and at night—his room dark, quiet, too warm—he would close his eyes and imagine your thighs on either side of his hips. your voice whispering his name. your nails on his skin.

he used to admire you from a safe place. used to think of you as a friend, maybe even a muse. now? now he couldn’t look at you without imagining what it would be like to bury his face between your legs. to ruin you a little. just enough.

he hated how much he needed it.

he hated how much he missed the feel of your mouth on his.

he hated that he wanted more.

you were stepping out of your digital illustration class, bag slung over your shoulder, neck stiff from hunching over your campaign poster project. when you exited the building, you spotted him right away—haechan, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands tucked into his backpack straps like he’d been waiting a while.

you always found him there these days.

“hey,” you said, breathless from the stairs. “thanks for waiting. again.”

he gave a casual shrug. “you make it sound like i have a life.”

“do you?”

“…not really.”

you both smiled.

as you walked side by side, the sun cast long shadows behind you, painting the concrete in soft amber. you weren’t touching. but it felt like you were. something invisible had always linked you two. lately, though—it tugged harder.

“so,” you said, voice light, “i think i’m gonna go to that party. tomorrow”

he blinked. “jaehyun’s?”

you nodded. “he made it sound... exclusive.”

“and you’re going?”

you smirked at his tone. “might be an opportunity.”

he stiffened beside you. “opportunity for what?”

you gave him a look. “you know what.”

he stopped. “you’re really gonna sleep with him?”

your cheeks flared, heart skipping. “no. it’s not like that. i just… maybe it’s time to try. get some answers.”

you watched his face carefully. saw the way his jaw locked. the way his brows twitched.

“but,” you added softly, “if it happens… it happens.”

and then, bold as ever, you turned to him. “unless you still wanna help me.”

his breath caught.

“we already kissed,” you said, eyes steady on his. “feels like we’ve done half the homework. next part’s sex, right? that’s what comes after. and you—you’re the one who used to brag about how good you were at it.”

he looked like you’d cornered him. because you had.

“remember those nights you’d ramble about girls? ‘her tits are insane’, ‘i’d fold her in a second’—that was you, haechan. your words.”

he swallowed, hard. “i didn’t think you were listening.”

“i always listen to you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “especially when you talk about what you like.”

and then, with a wicked grin: “and let’s be honest. guys lose their minds over tits and ass. that’s not complicated.”

his silence told you everything.

you took one step closer, slow and steady.

“so?” you asked again, quieter now. “are you still willing to help me?”

and he didn’t answer.

not with words.

but you saw it in his eyes—the panic, the desire, the war between instinct and restraint.

you had no idea how long he could keep resisting.

but you were getting closer to finding out.

the night felt quieter than usual when they arrived at your apartment. your didn’t speak. the walk there had been filled with those kinds of silences that don’t necessarily feel awkward, but make you too aware of your own thoughts. you walked a few steps ahead of haechan, and he found himself watching you — the way your fingers twisted nervously, the slight tension in your shoulders, the soft sway of your hair brushing your back. he could tell she was unsure. and if he was being honest, so was he.

he’d never seen you like this before. not really. not in this light. there’d always been this boundary between both of you, this invisible thread that kept everything just on the edge of becoming something else. but lately… it had changed. the way she looked at him lingered a little longer. the way he touched you — in small, passing moments — felt less like habit and more like gravity. and right now, standing in the dim glow of your apartment, he realized just how close you were to crossing that invisible line.

he stands close, but not touching, his gaze fixed on you with a kind of careful intensity that makes your skin warm.

you unlock the door without saying a word, your fingers fumbling slightly. you can feel his eyes on you, not judging, just watching. when you step inside, he follows, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

inside, it’s quiet. you cross the room and sit on the edge of your bed, heart racing.

he doesn’t follow you immediately. Instead, he leans against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his expression unreadable. you feel his eyes on your back as you drop your keys onto the counter, your breath shaky, heart pacing with something you don’t quite understand but desperately want to. when you finally turn around to face him, he’s already watching you — not with that usual teasing smile, but with something heavier, deeper. something that feels like want.

you turned to face him, eyes uncertain, but there was something else behind them. something softer. something raw. “i want to do it,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“still thinking about your plan?” he asks softly, voice calm, like he’s trying not to spook you.

you nod slowly. “i just… i want to be good for jaehyun.”

his jaw tightens just a little, barely noticeable. but his voice doesn’t change. “you’re trying to learn how to please someone else,” he says, stepping closer, “when you haven’t even taken the time to learn yourself.”

you blink, suddenly unsure. “i thought… that’s what you were going to help me with.”

he exhales gently, closing the space between you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his chest. “i will. but only if you let me take the lead. if you trust me completely. no pretending. no rushing. just… you. raw. honest.”

your breath catches in your throat. something about the way he says it, the quiet authority in his tone, the way he looks at you like he already knows your body better than you do — it makes you ache in places you’ve barely dared to explore on your own.

“okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “i’ll do whatever you say.”

his eyes soften. there’s something unspoken there — a tension that’s been building between you for longer than you realized. and now it’s finally unraveling.

“then take off your clothes,” he says, his voice low, steady. “lie back.”

your fingers feel clumsy, nerves fluttering in your chest as you undress. he doesn’t look away. his gaze follows every inch of skin you reveal like he’s memorizing you. but it never feels invasive. it feels… reverent. when you’re finally bare, you lie down, body exposed, unsure, vulnerable. he doesn’t move right away. he just watches, like he’s waiting for you to fully settle into the moment.

“you’re beautiful,” he says quietly. “but i’m not going to touch you until i see that you believe it, too.”

you want to believe it. you want to feel beautiful in your own skin, not just because someone else says it, but because something inside you says you deserve to be. but right now, all you feel is nervous. exposed. seen.

he kneels at the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. “you’re safe,” he murmurs. “you’re in control. i’m just guiding you.”

his hand touches your thigh, light as air, and your breath stutters. the warmth of his palm spreads through you like liquid, grounding and electric all at once. he doesn’t rush. his fingers explore slowly, tracing the curve of your hip, the softness of your stomach, the inside of your thigh. each touch is a question, and your breath is the answer.

when his fingers finally find you, you gasp — not because it’s too much, but because it’s perfect. just enough. just right. he doesn’t push, doesn’t demand. he simply explores, watching every reaction, every shift of your hips, every shaky breath you take like it’s the only thing that matters.

his fingers finally reach where you need them, but he doesn’t go straight for it — no, he teases, tracing along the outer edge of your heat, making you gasp at the sudden jolt of electricity. your hips shift instinctively, seeking friction, but his free hand presses gently against your stomach, grounding you.

“easy,” he murmurs. “we’re not rushing. i want to feel every part of you fall apart.”

your head tips back against the pillow, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers finally slip between your folds — gentle at first, just enough pressure to make your toes curl. he exhales softly, as if the heat of you surprises even him.

“relax,” he whispers. “feel. don’t think about what’s next. just stay with me. here.”

his fingers stroke you with a patience you didn’t know could exist, learning your body like it’s a language only he can understand. you’re wet, embarrassingly so, and he seems to revel in it, the way your body responds to his touch. he circles your clit with slow, practiced motions, his thumb brushing over you with maddening precision. you’re moaning now, soft and quiet, not even realizing the sounds are yours.

“fuck,” he whispers. “you’re soaked.”

your cheeks flush, but any embarrassment is quickly replaced by want as he finds your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that make your legs tremble.

you whimper his name, voice barely there, and his response is a low groan against your skin. “that’s it, baby. let me hear you.”

his mouth is everywhere now — at your neck, your chest, sucking marks into your skin like he wants to claim you, mark you, make you his. and god, part of you wants it too — wants to be wanted like this, worshipped like this.

his fingers move lower, one pressing gently at your entrance, testing. “you okay?” he asks, voice soft but thick with desire.

“yes,” you gasp, clutching at his wrist. “please.”

your hips begin to move on their own, chasing the rhythm of his fingers. the pressure is building, coiling deep inside your core, unfamiliar and terrifying and addictive. he slips a finger inside you, slow and gentle, curling just right, and you cry out, your body clenching around him without meaning to.

“h-hyuck...” you cried.

“you like that?” he asks, voice rough now, closer to a groan than a whisper. you nod frantically, unable to form words, your hands gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing.

he slides in slow, giving you time to adjust, watching your face the whole time. his thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in time with the slow push of his finger. your breath stutters, and he leans in to kiss you, stealing the sound from your lips.

you moan into his mouth, overwhelmed, undone, as he adds a second finger, the stretch just enough to make your back arch. he curls them just right, finding that spot inside you that makes your thighs shake.

“there it is,” he groans, his lips brushing yours. “fuck, you feel so good.”

you can’t answer. you can barely think. all you can do is feel — the heat building inside you, the pull of release so close you can taste it.

“don’t hold back,” he whispers against your neck. “i want to feel you fall apart for me.”

and when he starts moving faster — fingers pumping deep and sure, thumb pressing harder against your clit — it’s too much. the pressure breaks, crashing over you like a tidal wave. your body tenses, then shatters, crying out his name as you come harder than you ever have before.

he holds you through it, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips. his fingers slow but don’t leave you, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him, boneless and gasping.

“let go,” he murmurs again, lips brushing against your ear. “don’t hold back. i’ve got you.”

his thumb presses harder against your clit, his fingers moving faster, more deliberate, and the pressure explodes inside you, all at once — a wave crashing over your body with violent tenderness. you cry out, shaking, the world narrowing to nothing but heat and light and the sound of his voice grounding you as your orgasm rips through you.

he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. his breath is ragged, his eyes full of something you don’t quite understand — but you feel it in your chest. raw. intense. real.

“you don’t know what you just did to me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

your body arches, muscles tightening, breath gone, and everything — everything — goes quiet except for the echo of your release.

and when you open your eyes to meet his, you realize something terrifying and beautiful — you don’t think you’ll ever look at him the same again.

your back pressed against the sheets, your skin bare under the dim, golden light of your room, your breath already shaky as haechan settles beside you, fully clothed, fully in control. you should feel nervous, and maybe you do, but it’s buried under something stronger — something warmer. the way he’s looking at you now is enough to make you forget how to breathe.

haechan sits on the edge of your bed, staring at his hand—now clean—like he can’t believe what just happened. his breath is heavier than he wants to admit. his thoughts are scrambled, the feeling of touching you, of showing you something he never thought he’d share, overwhelms him. something inside him burns, something he doesn’t know if it’s frustration or desire, but he feels it with an intensity he can’t control.

when you step out of the shower, your skin still warm from the hot water, he stays there, still. you go through your skincare routine, but every movement seems to echo in him more than it should. the way your fingers brush against your face, the way you move... everything feels different now. he watches in silence, the space between you now thick with something unspoken.

“i didn’t think it would feel like that,” you say softly, breaking the silence. your voice has a tremor you can’t hide. “thank you... for helping me.”

the gesture feels sincere, but there’s something in your eyes that makes him feel exposed. he doesn’t quite understand it. he tells himself it’s fine, that he’s just helping you, that he’s just being there for you. but his body betrays him, his jaw tightens, and his fingers twitch at his side.

“you don’t need to thank me,” he says, his voice quiet, almost too quiet. “you just needed to know yourself. that’s all.”

you pause, pressing moisturizer into your skin, still feeling that soft hum in your body, a low buzz you can’t seem to shake off. it’s from what happened, but you try to tell yourself it’s just the adrenaline, just nerves. nothing more.

“i think i can handle things now,” you reply, keeping your eyes on your reflection in the mirror. “maybe tomorrow at the party... i’ll kiss jaehyun, just see how it goes. no pressure. i don’t want to rush.”

the moment the words leave your mouth, you feel it—the way the air shifts between you two. you don’t mean to look at haechan when you say jaehyun’s name, but you do. and his eyes flicker for just a second, something hard behind them that he quickly hides. he doesn’t react out loud, but his shoulders stiffen, his mouth pressing into a tight line.

“yeah,” he says, his voice controlled, but you can hear the tightness underneath. “sounds like a good idea. you deserve to figure out what you want.”

you smile, trying to lighten the mood, but something in you catches as you look at him. you feel like you’ve said the wrong thing, but you’re not sure why. haechan doesn’t look at you anymore. he stares at the floor, his jaw working like he’s holding something back.

he doesn’t let himself show it. he can’t. you’re his best friend, and he promised to help you, to guide you, not to get caught up in his own feelings. but with every word you speak, with every step you take toward jaehyun, something deep inside him twists.

he’s tasted something he shouldn’t want. and now, the thought of you with someone else—even someone you love—is unbearable.

still, he says nothing. he can’t. because he promised to help you discover yourself, not to confuse you more.

even if every part of him wants to be the only one who gets to touch you like that again.

friday came faster than expected, slipping through the cracks of your week like it had been waiting for you. unlike the other days, this one was bitterly cold—the kind of cold that crept into your sleeves and curled around your spine. haechan had texted you earlier, his usual playful tone dulled by exhaustion. "today i actually have to close, so i’ll be stuck at work late," he wrote, followed by a yawning emoji and a tired little heart. you stared at the message longer than you should’ve, feeling something heavy settle in your chest.

the cold winter air bites at your legs as you step out of the cab, your breath fogging in front of you in soft clouds. the house isn’t just any house—it’s one of the old fraternity houses on the edge of campus, the kind that looks more like a mansion than a place college boys live in. warm light glows from the tall windows, and the low hum of music leaks out from behind the heavy wooden door before it swings open.

jaehyun is already waiting, leaning casually against the doorframe. he looks unfairly good—his hair slightly tousled, a dark turtleneck hugging his figure under a sleek wool coat. he gives you that smile, the one that always makes your stomach twist in ways you’ve never really understood.

“you made it,” he says, stepping aside to let you in.

you settled on a black leather jacket, cropped just above the waist, its silver zippers catching the light every time you moved. underneath, you wore a satin navy blouse, soft and loose, with a deep neckline that hinted without revealing too much. your high-waisted dark jeans hugged your figure just right, paired with heeled ankle boots that clicked confidently against the pavement. a silk scarf, deep burgundy, wrapped around your neck—not just for warmth, but as a finishing touch. your hair was pulled back loosely, tendrils framing your face, and your makeup was soft but sharp—dark liner, flushed cheeks, and a deep berry gloss that caught the chill in the air.

you notice jaehyun’s gaze drop, lingering for a beat too long before he leads you inside.

the party isn’t crowded—maybe twenty people, maybe less. it’s quiet in that expensive kind of way: muted music, low lighting, golden liquor sloshing in crystal glasses. there’s laughter and whispers, but nothing too wild. you’re not sure what you expected, but somehow it feels more intimate than you’d prepared for.

after your second drink, the room gets a little warmer. the vodka-orange is stronger than you thought, but it burns in a good way. you’re not drunk, not like that night, but the edges of your thoughts are softer, looser.

the music is barely audible now, just a low pulse behind your ribs as jaehyun leans in. it happens the way you always imagined it would—with the warmth of alcohol in your veins, the subtle tension in the air, his breath fanning softly against your cheek as his lips finally meet yours.

at first, it’s cinematic.

his hand is at your waist, careful but firm. his lips, smooth and slow, move against yours like he’s done this a thousand times. his cologne is rich—something expensive and clean, like bergamot and wood.

“you look incredible tonight,” he murmurs, voice low. It’s not the first time he’s flirted with you, but tonight it feels more focused.

you laugh lightly, sipping again. “you say that to every girl you invite to one of these,” you tease.

he smirks. “i don’t. just the ones i hope will stay after everyone else leaves.”

that catches you off guard. there’s a pause, the kind that’s heavy with implication. you don’t answer right away. instead, you tilt your head, watching him through the haze of dim lights and liquor.

more intentional. you close your eyes, willing your heart to speed up, your stomach to twist, your knees to weaken.

but none of it happens.

instead, there’s a slow, creeping emptiness that settles over your skin. you taste the sharp tang of beer on his tongue—bitter and stale—and it dulls the moment like a film of dust on something once shiny. it’s not that he’s doing anything wrong. in fact, he’s doing everything right. and maybe that’s the problem. it’s all too perfect. too rehearsed. too... lifeless.

you keep your lips against his a second longer, maybe two, hoping that if you just try, the magic will follow.

but it doesn’t.

what started as something dreamlike begins to dissolve, unraveling into something flat. weightless. forgettable. like kissing a statue—beautiful, yes, but cold. you feel your body slowly disconnect, like your mind is pulling away, shrinking back into itself. you’re kissing jaehyun. jaehyun. tall, broad-shouldered, silver-tongued. the guy every girl fantasizes about.

and yet... nothing.

when you pull away, you do it gently, trying not to show the disappointment pressing against your chest like a bruise. he looks at you with those deep, unreadable eyes, but you can’t meet them for long. something in you already knows: this isn’t what you wanted. maybe it never was.

and then, like clockwork, your thoughts betray you.

because in the silence that follows, in that stretch of breathless stillness, a name rises uninvited in your mind.

haechan.

you blink, shaken by the immediacy of it. why him, of all people? but it doesn’t stop. your mind floods with him, with everything he is and isn’t. jaehyun is all sharp lines and polished edges. he’s winter: sleek and cold, dressed in cashmere and shadows. and haechan...

haechan is sun-warmed skin and mischievous smiles. he’s a burst of color in a black-and-white room. his skin is golden, kissed by sun even in december. you remember the first time he wore glasses in class—how suddenly he looked different. not in a new way, but like you were finally seeing something that had been there all along. it had startled you. he looked good. really good. and you’d stared a little longer than you meant to.

you think about how he always cradles that old gaming console on his lap during breaks, fingers dancing over buttons like it's second nature. how he talks about characters and plots with the same intensity people reserve for politics or love. how he orders black coffee like it's a religion, never anything sweet. how he complains about the cold like it's a personal offense—bundling up in layers and still shivering, nose pink, eyes watery, grumbling but cute.

and you remember something else.

the way his eyes light up when he talks about music. not just any music—he’s always been drawn to layered melodies, harmonies that build slowly, that sneak up on you. you’d caught him once, eyes closed, headphones in, mouthing the words to a song you didn’t recognize. something soft and slow. when you asked what it was, he smiled, kind of shy, and said, “it’s this track i found—it builds so gently, but when it hits, it hits. it makes you feel everything, you know?”

you didn’t then. but now, maybe you do.

because that’s what haechan is like. he builds slowly. gently. he makes you feel everything without trying. without asking. just by being.

you think back to his kiss—that moment in the quiet of his room, when the world felt too small and too loud all at once. his lips weren’t smooth or calculated. they were warm. real. tasting faintly of coffee and breath mints, of nervousness and care. his hands weren’t firm—they trembled just a little. like he wasn’t sure, but he wanted to be. and that kiss? it burned. it lingered. it left something behind in your chest, something heavy and aching.

jaehyun’s kiss, in comparison, feels like water evaporating before it ever touches your skin.

“i need some air,” you say, barely loud enough to hear over the music.

you step away from the kitchen, your hands shaking slightly—not from cold, but from clarity. it’s unsettling, how fast something can shift. how a fantasy can collapse in on itself the moment reality arrives.

you walk toward the front door, ignoring jaehyun’s curious glance. and as the winter air hits your cheeks again, sharp and sobering, you realize the only thing you want right now is warmth.

and the only person who’s ever made you feel it... is haechan.

you step outside, the cold air biting at your cheeks like reality trying to sober you up. it’s quiet out here, except for the faint music pulsing through the windows behind you and the distant sound of traffic. your lips still taste faintly of beer and disappointment, and you try not to let it show on your face—even if there’s no one around to see.

you wrap your arms around yourself, shivering slightly. not just from the cold, but from the feeling growing in your chest. a hollow ache that started the moment jaehyun pulled away and left you with nothing but the bitter aftertaste of something that should’ve felt magical. it was supposed to mean something. you’d wanted it to. for weeks—months even—you thought that maybe this was what you needed. something new. something exciting.

but standing there in the dark, with the wind tugging gently at your coat, all you can think about is how wrong it felt.

how empty.

you sigh and glance down at your phone. 11:45 p.m. haechan probably just got home not long ago—he said he’d be working late tonight, and you remember the slight frown he gave you when you mentioned the party. not because he disapproved. but because he wouldn’t be there.

you hesitate, thumb hovering over his contact. calling him now would make you look ridiculous, wouldn’t it? but god… you need someone. someone who knows you, who doesn’t expect you to be dazzling or mysterious or anything other than exactly who you are.

before you can overthink it again, your thumb presses “call.”

the line barely rings twice before his voice comes through, groggy but alert, like he hadn’t really been asleep yet.

"y/n?" his voice is a little breathless, alarmed. "are you okay?"

you don’t answer right away. the sound of his voice cracks something open inside you. your throat tightens, and your eyes sting, a rush of heat behind your lashes. the words won’t come, caught somewhere between your tongue and your heart.

"hey, talk to me. what happened?"

his concern hits you like a wave. not because of what he’s saying, but how he’s saying it. gently. urgently. like nothing else in the world matters except you right now. like your silence is enough to make his chest hurt.

you swallow thickly, finally managing to breathe, “i… i didn’t know who else to call.”

he exhales slowly, like he’s relieved to hear your voice, even if it’s shaky. “i’m glad you called me.”

and it’s so stupid—so fucking stupid—but that’s when the tears come. silently at first, then all at once. and still, haechan says nothing. just waits, gives you space to fall apart without asking for an explanation.

he always does that. always shows up, always makes you feel like you’re not too much, even when you’re too much for yourself.

and suddenly you realize something—not like a lightning bolt, but like a quiet click, something that was always there, waiting to be noticed. it was never about jaehyun. not really. it was the idea of him. and now, with that illusion shattered, you’re left with the one person who’s been real all along.

the one who always answers the phone. the one who remembers how you take your coffee. the one who listens when you talk about your art for hours and never pretends to be bored.

“can you…” your voice is small, choked, “can you come get me?”

“already on my way,” he says without hesitation.

and just like that, you feel less alone. maybe not okay, not yet—but safe.

safe in the way only he ever made you feel.

you step back into the warmth of the house, wiping your cheeks and pretending the cold air is the only reason your eyes are red. inside, the party hasn’t changed at all—music still pulsing, people still dancing, someone already passed out on a couch. it feels like you left the chaos and walked right back into it, except now it doesn't swallow you whole. now, you’re just… drifting.

you spot jaehyun near the kitchen, leaning against the counter, lazily scrolling through his phone. he doesn’t look up at first, but when he does, his eyes land on you immediately. he straightens, sliding the phone into his back pocket before making his way toward you.

your stomach knots—not because you're afraid, but because you’re not sure what you're supposed to say to the guy you just kissed and then immediately ran away from.

before he even opens his mouth, you raise a hand slightly, your words tumbling out faster than you can stop them.

“i—i’m sorry. i just… i think i was really into the idea of you. like, really into it. but tonight i realized maybe… i don’t know…”

you trail off, eyes dropping to the floor, suddenly very interested in the scuff marks on your boots.

jaehyun quirks a brow, and for a second, it’s awkwardly silent—but then he lets out a soft laugh. it’s not cruel, not mocking. just… amused.

“you know,” he says, arms crossing over his chest, “when we first started talking, i thought you and that guy donghyuck?—were together. like, definitely together.”

you blink, lifting your head. “what?”

“yeah,” he shrugs. “you’d always come to class with him. always laughing, always close. and the way he looked at you? i figured i didn’t stand a chance. but then i saw you alone for a few days, and thought maybe you broke up or something, so…” he gestures vaguely. “i shot my shot.”

you feel your cheeks heat up instantly. “we’re not… he’s not my boyfriend. we never dated.”

jaehyun smirks like he doesn’t believe you, but also like he knows better than to argue. “sure. maybe not technically. but come on.” he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “you really think there’s nothing going on there?”

you start to protest, but then stop. because he’s not wrong, and you’re too tired to lie—to him or to yourself.

“it’s complicated,” you mutter.

he smiles again, this time softer, more genuine. “well, if it helps… i’m not offended. not at all. i mean, you’re sweet, and you kiss okay—”

“okay?” you gasp, half-laughing, half-horrified.

“hey,” he chuckles, holding up his hands, “it was a mutual ‘meh,’ right?”

you both burst out laughing, the tension finally breaking like a balloon popped with a pin. for the first time that night, you feel lighter.

“i really thought i liked you,” you admit.

“you probably did,” he shrugs. “or… the idea of me.”

“yeah.”

jaehyun gives you a wink. “for what it’s worth, i think you and haechan are cute as hell. even if you don’t know it yet.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. a real, unforced smile.

“thanks,” you say quietly.

“anytime,” he replies, already turning toward the kitchen again. “just… don’t let that one go, alright?”

and as you watch him disappear into the crowd, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

on my way. almost there.

you press your lips together, the ghost of a smile still there.

maybe you didn’t come to this party to kiss jaehyun after all. maybe you came to realize who you should’ve been calling all along.

the cold bites harder now. you’re standing outside again, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeves, your phone clutched tight in your hand. every passing second feels like it’s stretching eternity, but then—you spot him. haechan walks up the sidewalk.

haechan was wearing sweatpants, mismatched socks stuffed into crocs, and a hoodie that’s too big even for him. his hair is a mess, fluffed and wild like he just rolled out of bed—and he probably did. you freeze, heart caught in your throat, as he blinks at you sleepily, rubbing at one eye with the heel of his palm.

you stare at him—at the boy who still showed up, in the dead of night, after a long shift, just because you needed him. and something inside you swells so big, so full, it spills over before you can contain it.

you don’t think—you run.

you crash into him with a force that makes him stumble half a step back, arms instantly wrapping around you, warm and steady. he doesn’t say anything. he just holds you, one hand coming up to stroke your hair gently, his breath warm against your temple.

you press your face into his neck, breathing him in—coffee, fabric softener, something so haechan. your chest heaves, and your eyes sting again.

when he pulls you into his embrace, it feels like the weight of the world finally lifts from your chest. his touch is soft, his fingers brushing against your skin in the most familiar way, like he’s always been there, always meant to be there.

he sighs softly, tugging you closer like he’s scared you’ll slip away. “seriously… what’s wrong with you lately?” he murmurs, voice groggy, laced with concern. “why are you acting like such a crybaby, huh?”

you lift your head, blinking up at him through the tears that won’t stop pooling. your eyes meet his—those deep, sleepy eyes that always seem to see too much—and your lips part as if to answer, but no words come.

so instead, you kiss him.

you pull him down by the collar of his hoodie and press your mouth to his with all the confusion, all the ache, all the longing you’ve buried for far too long. his lips are warm, soft, and as soon as he realizes what’s happening, he kisses you back.

and then, when you press your lips to his, it’s like every other kiss you’ve had fades away into nothingness. the world around you dissolves, and all that remains is the sensation of him. it’s pure, it’s grounding—everything that jaehyun’s kiss wasn’t.

he doesn’t ask questions. he doesn’t stop you. he just holds you tighter, like he’s afraid this moment might shatter.

his hand cradles your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing under your eye, and the kiss deepens—not rushed, not clumsy, just real. like he’s trying to tell you all the things neither of you ever dared to say.

your fingers curl into his hoodie as you pour everything into the kiss—your gratitude, your fear, your guilt, your truth.

it feels like you're being purified, as if every trace of doubt, of confusion, of disappointment, is being washed away by the intensity of haechan’s presence. there’s no bitterness, no strange aftertaste—only him, only the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as you lose yourself in him. with each second, you realize just how much you’ve longed for this, how much you’ve needed him, even when you didn’t know it. this, this is what real intimacy feels like, and it’s everything you never knew you were missing.

the walk to haechan’s apartment felt different. the night air was biting, and the cold seemed to press against your skin, but it wasn’t enough to cool the heat that was bubbling in your chest. you didn’t want to be here, not tonight, not after everything that had just happened. but here you were, once again, losing yourself in the warmth of his presence.

“lost your keys again?” haechan asked, his voice playful but with a hint of concern in his eyes as he stepped aside to let you into his apartment. you gave him a sheepish smile, pretending to fumble with your bag and looking down, avoiding his gaze.

“yeah, I’m such a mess,” you murmured, but your words felt hollow, like they were slipping through your fingers as quickly as the night’s events.

he didn’t say anything more, but the slight furrow of his brow told you he was paying attention. it was a game, a little lie that you used to keep yourself near him just a little longer, but tonight, it felt like more. it felt like you were hiding something from him.

inside his apartment, the quiet enveloped you like a blanket, and for a moment, it felt like everything was still. you sat on the couch next to him, the tension between you thickening by the second. it was always easy to talk to him, but tonight, the words felt like they were stuck in your throat. and you knew why—because the taste of jaehyun’s kiss was still fresh on your lips, and it made you sick to your stomach.

“what happened?” haechan’s voice cut through the silence, and you could see it in his eyes: that flicker of concern. he knew something was wrong, and you could feel his gaze on you, waiting for the truth.

you let out a breath, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “jaehyun... I kissed him.”

he stiffened beside you, his body tensing. you didn’t have to look at him to know the change in his expression. it was there in the way his muscles locked up, in the way he barely moved, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the words.

"what? you kissed him?" he repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. "good for you, I guess..."

the final sentence hit you like a punch to the gut, but you couldn’t stop now. it was too late to take it back, and the confession felt like it was clawing its way out.

"it wasn’t what I expected," you whispered, avoiding his gaze as your stomach twisted. "it was... bad. it didn’t feel right. at all."

haechan’s hand clenched into a fist, his face hardening, but there was something more in his eyes now—something you hadn’t expected. jealousy. confusion. it was almost as if he wanted to say something but was holding it back. you felt the heat rise in your chest, your own guilt gnawing at you.

"wait—what?" haechan leaned forward, his voice suddenly sharp, though his face was tight with barely-contained emotion. "it was... bad? after all that?"

you nodded slowly, your throat tight as you continued, “yeah. it wasn’t what I thought it would be. there was no passion, no spark. the taste of beer... it was all I could focus on, and I hated it. I... I just couldn’t feel anything.”

the silence that followed felt thick, suffocating. you could see the storm brewing in his eyes. he wasn’t angry—at least, not completely—but he was something else. hurt, maybe? or disappointment? you couldn’t tell.

"so, that’s it then?" his voice was quieter now, the sharpness fading into something softer, more contemplative. “your feelings for him are... gone?”

"yeah," you admitted, finally meeting his gaze, feeling the truth weigh on your shoulders. "they’re gone. I don’t want him anymore. I don’t even want to kiss him again."

the words hung in the air, and you waited for him to respond, your heart racing, unsure of what he would say. when he finally spoke, it wasn’t what you expected.

“you know,” he started, his voice light, almost teasing, “i never liked the idea of you with him. not even for a second.”

you blinked, surprised at his admission. “you didn’t?”

“no,” he said, the edge of his smile almost teasing, though there was something else behind it. “I always thought you deserved someone who wasn’t... like him.”

you frowned, still processing what he was saying, but before you could respond, he continued.

“but now i get it. i see why you would be disappointed. he’s not... him,” haechan said, his voice lowering, the underlying sadness creeping in. "i guess i’m just glad you’re realizing it now. even if it took you kissing him to see it."

a chill ran down your spine as you looked at him, unsure of what he meant. your heart tightened with a strange mix of relief and something else—something more complicated that you couldn’t name yet.

“you’re not... mad?” you asked quietly.

“mad?” he repeated, laughing softly, though there was no real humor in it. “no. why would I be mad? I’m just... relieved. you deserve better.”

“so... what now?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

haechan didn’t answer immediately. his eyes lingered on you—soaked in the way your makeup had smudged slightly, how your lips were still a little swollen from that kiss with jaehyun, how your dress had ridden up your thighs from the car ride. he swallowed hard, jaw clenched like he was fighting the urge to say something reckless.

then he said it anyway.

“now i take care of you.”

your breath hitched.

he stepped closer. slowly. deliberately. the kind of approach that made your knees weak. the kind of approach that said he knew exactly what you needed before you did. his hand reached for your waist, pulling you gently toward him, until your bodies were flush against each other.

“unless you don’t want that,” he murmured against your ear, his lips grazing your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps. “you tell me to stop, and i will. no questions, no pressure.”

you didn’t say anything. you couldn’t. Instead, you tilted your head and captured his lips in a kiss—needy, messy, full of everything you hadn’t said for weeks.

he groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips, grounding you. but he didn’t rush. he kissed you like he had time. like he was savoring the moment he’d waited for far too long.

“haechan…” you breathed when you finally pulled back.

he looked at you, eyes burning.

“yeah, baby?”

your cheeks flushed. “i… want to go further. i trust you.”

he blinked, just once, and something softened in his expression.

“are you sure?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher, but laced with concern. “i need to hear you say it.”

you nodded, fingers brushing his jaw. “i’m sure.”

he kissed you again, slower this time, like a promise. then he scooped you up effortlessly in his arms, carrying you to his bed, the same way he always carried you emotionally—careful, steady, never letting you fall.

he laid you down like you were precious, and then crawled over you, caging you in with his body, forehead pressed to yours.

“tell me if anything feels too much,” he whispered.

you nodded. he reached over to the nightstand, rummaging for a condom, giving you a look that made your stomach flip.

“Prepared?” you teased softly.

he smirked. “baby, i’ve been in love with you since you spilled coffee on my camera. i’ve always been prepared.”

your laugh faded into a gasp as his hands slipped beneath your dress, touching you with reverence, praise pouring from his mouth like it was second nature.

“so fucking perfect,” he murmured, kissing down your neck. “every part of you. mine to take care of. mine to love.”

his fingers teased you through your panties until you were arching, needy and aching, the room filled with the soft, wet sounds of your arousal.

“you’re already this wet for me? fuck—baby, you're killing me.”

you squirmed, overwhelmed by the sensation, but craving more. then you heard the foil tear, and your heart pounded louder.

the moment he entered you was slow, intense, a stretch that bordered on pain and pleasure, but he was right there—kissing your forehead, telling you how beautiful you were, how good you felt, how proud he was of you.

“you’re doing so good,” he groaned. “so fucking tight. you were made for me, weren’t you?”

you nodded desperately, clinging to him.

he moved slow, deep, rolling his hips so you felt every inch of him. his name fell from your lips like a prayer.

one condom turned into two. then three. you couldn’t stop. neither could he.

sweat clung to your skin, tangled sheets beneath you. he had you on top of him at one point, his hands on your hips as you moved, his eyes never leaving your face.

“that’s it, baby. take what you need. fuck—ride me just like that.”

another position had him behind you, one hand gripping your waist, the other slipping between your legs to make you scream his name as your body fell apart.

by the time the fourth wrapper crumpled beside the bed, you were both panting, dazed and desperate.

you rolled onto your back, breathless. “we’re out.”

you reached for your phone, already sitting up. “I can run down to the 7-eleven—”

he stopped you instantly, pressing a hand to your stomach.

“no, baby,” he said, voice firm. “i’ll go. you stay here. let me take care of it.”

the way he said it—so naturally, so possessively—sent a wave of heat straight through you. you bit your lip, something wicked curling inside you.

“or…” you said, voice dripping with mischief. “we could just… try without one.”

he froze. eyes dark. jaw tight.

“don’t tempt me,” he growled.

you crawled into his lap, pressing your lips to his neck.

“what if i want to?” you whispered. “what if i want all of you?”

he exhaled sharply, head falling back. “fuck… you’re dangerous.”

still, he hesitated—until you ground down on him and whispered, “i trust you, haechan.”

that was all it took.

he didn’t say a word for a moment. just stared at you like you’d set him on fire.

then he kissed you—hard. not rushed, but full of hunger, like you’d just pulled the leash off something he’d been holding back for far too long.

you could feel him against you, throbbing and hot, even without anything between you now. your body tingled in anticipation, in fear, in want. you were bare in every way—and he saw you, accepted you, craved you.

he guided you down onto the bed again, positioning himself between your thighs, his hands cupping your face gently.

“if i do this…” he said, voice low and trembling with restraint, “you need to tell me if anything feels wrong. anything at all, baby.”

“it won’t,” you whispered. “i want you. just like this.”

he lined himself up, one hand steadying your hip, the other brushing hair from your face. when he pushed in—slow, careful, deep—your whole body tensed, wrapped around him like he was the first breath after drowning.

it hurt. just a little. enough to make your lips part with a gasp. but he stopped instantly, not moving, just whispering against your cheek.

“breathe for me, sweetheart. you’re doing so fucking good.”

you nodded, clinging to his shoulders, letting yourself relax little by little until your body opened for him.

he began to move—not fast, but deep and fluid, his voice rasping against your ear with every thrust.

“you feel unreal,” he groaned. “so tight. so fucking warm. shit—you're making me lose my mind.”

your nails dug into his back. you couldn’t think. could barely breathe. all you knew was him—his scent, his voice, his body fitting against yours like you were made for this moment.

“does it feel good, baby?” he asked, barely holding it together.

“yes,” you moaned. “it feels so good, haechan.”

he reached between you, his fingers finding that perfect spot again, circling gently as his hips rolled deeper.

“i want you to cum for me,” he whispered, eyes flicking up to the mirror across the room.

and that’s when you saw it too—the reflection.

the sight of yourself, spread out beneath him, his body covering yours, the way his hips rolled into you, slow but relentless, the way your mouth fell open in pleasure.

you locked eyes with him through the mirror.

“look at you,” he said. “so fucking pretty. you should see what i see. you should see what you do to me.”

you whimpered, already close. the feeling of him inside you, the way he praised you, the reflection showing you everything you felt but couldn’t describe—it pushed you right to the edge.

“you’re mine,” he growled, thrusting deeper. “say it.”

“i’m yours,” you gasped, back arching.

“again.”

“i’m yours, haechan—fuck—i’m—”

the orgasm tore through you like a tidal wave. your whole body trembled as you clung to him, moaning his name like a confession.

he followed with a deep, broken moan, hips grinding into you as he came, his entire body tensing above yours, the sound of your names and curses filling the air as he spilled inside you, raw and unfiltered.

afterward, he collapsed next to you, pulling you into his chest, kissing your forehead with trembling lips.

“i’ve never felt anything like that,” he whispered.

you couldn’t answer. your body was still shaking, your mind a mess of stars and heat.

he held you close, running his fingers up and down your spine.

and for a long time, neither of you spoke.

because nothing needed to be said.

haechan stood by the door, shirtless, hair messy, pulling on his sweatpants with a crooked grin on his face.

“be right back,” he said, grabbing his keys. “we are out of condoms.”

your heart jumped at how casually he said it. like he already knew you weren’t done. like he couldn’t wait to get his hands back on you.

“don’t be long,” you said, your voice a little hoarse, a little needy.

“i’ll run,” he smirked, and you believed him.

the moment the door closed behind him, your body buzzed with anticipation. you felt sore, satisfied… and yet completely empty without him there.

a little while later, you were curled up on his couch wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie, legs tucked under you, sipping water with your thighs still trembling from everything he just made you feel.

your mind ran wild imagining all the things he’d do when he got back.

and oh—he did.

he came back ten minutes later, breathless and grinning, holding a bag with the corner of a box peeking out.

“miss me?” he teased.

“shut up,” you mumbled, biting your lip as he approached you on the couch.

but he didn’t give you time to banter. his mouth was on yours again, hungry and hot, hands already sliding under the hoodie like he’d been starving the whole way back.

“i couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he growled into your ear, lips dragging down your neck. “every fucking step i ran, i was thinking about how wet you were. how tight. how you said my name when you came.”

you whimpered, legs parting automatically as he knelt between them on the couch.

but this time—he was different. rougher. more commanding. his eyes darker.

“get up,” he whispered, pulling you to your feet.

“where are we—?”

“shower,” he said. “now.”

you didn’t argue.

the water hit your skin like a shock, but his body was hotter. he pressed you up against the cool tile wall, mouth devouring yours as his hands slid down to your ass, lifting you up, making you wrap your legs around him.

“you’re mine tonight,” he growled against your lips. “no stopping now. you started this—now i’m gonna finish it. again and again.”

your back hit the wall as he slid into you, wet and desperate. the sounds of skin against skin, water splashing, your moans echoing in the steam—filthy and perfect.

you lost count of how many times he made you come.

after the shower, he didn’t even let you dry off.

he carried you—carried—naked and dripping, to the living room, laying you over the back of the couch. your knees barely held as he bent you forward, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding between your legs.

“still so wet?” he teased, running his fingers through your folds. “what did i do to you, baby?”

“you ruined me,” you gasped, pushing back against his hand.

“good,” he hissed. “you’re gonna take me again. right here.”

and you did.

he fucked you from behind on the couch, your moans muffled in the cushion, your fingers clawing at the leather. he didn’t let up—he used you, praised you, told you how fucking hot you looked taking him like that.

then the kitchen.

you barely made it there.

he bent you over the counter, spreading your legs with a low groan.

“you trust me?” he asked, voice low and rough.

“yes,” you breathed.

“good,” he said, sliding in again, slow and deep. “because i'm not holding back anymore.”

he fucked you while gripping your hips, your body slamming gently into the counter with each thrust, your breath fogging the cold surface.

“so fucking perfect,” he groaned. “you were made for me.”

then came the dining table.

you ended up on it—legs open, arms thrown over your head, his name spilling from your lips like a mantra. he kissed every inch of your body, left love bites on your thighs, praised every moan and whimper you gave him.

you didn’t even remember how many condoms you went through until—

“fuck,” he muttered, breathless, sweaty. “last one’s gone.”

the apartment was thick with heat and the smell of sex. your bodies glistened with sweat, tangled over the polished wood of the dining table. haechan’s chest was pressed to your back, his arms wrapped tightly around you as both of you struggled to catch your breath.

it wasn’t until the digital clock on the microwave blinked 4:02 AM that either of you realized how much time had passed.

“shit,” you whispered with a soft laugh, still breathless.

“yeah…” haechan’s voice was husky, worn out, but content. he pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “we’ve been at this for hours. you okay?”

you nodded, eyes half-lidded, still processing everything. your body felt sore, used in the best possible way, and your heart was floating somewhere between exhaustion and complete peace.

he helped you off the table, careful and gentle now, holding you by the waist as you stumbled a little, your legs wobbly. you both laughed quietly at that, and he gave you a soft kiss on the forehead.

“come on,” he murmured. “let’s clean up and go to bed before the sun comes up.”

the warmth of his bed was a balm against your tender skin. after a quick rinse in the bathroom and slipping into one of his worn shirts, you curled up against him under the covers. his fingers traced light circles on your back as you lay there, your leg thrown over his, his other arm wrapped around you like you were something fragile and precious.

“you okay?” he asked again, softer this time. there was a hint of vulnerability in his voice—like he was afraid this had been too much.

you nodded into his chest.

“i’m more than okay,” you whispered. “i feel… safe. and really, really good.”

he exhaled a little laugh of relief and kissed the top of your head. the silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was peaceful. comforting. like your bodies had said everything your mouths didn’t need to.

soon enough, your breaths synced. his hand stayed on your waist as you both drifted off to sleep.

the next morning came slowly.

soft rays of sunlight filtered in through the curtains, painting lazy golden streaks across the sheets. you blinked awake first, still pressed against his warm body. his hand was splayed over your stomach, holding you close, and his legs were tangled with yours beneath the covers.

you didn’t want to move.

there was a quiet hum in your chest, that afterglow still lingering like a dream. you turned slightly to look at him—his hair was messy, lips parted, eyelashes resting gently on his cheeks. peaceful. beautiful.

you shifted a little, and he stirred, eyes barely opening.

“mmm,” he murmured. “you’re still here.”

“where else would i be?” you whispered.

he smiled, still half-asleep, and pulled you closer.

“good,” he said, voice low and raspy. “i want you right here. just like this.”

you melted into him, your heart full, your body still tingling in places, and thought maybe—just maybe—waking up like this with haechan could become your favorite part of any day.

haechan made breakfast in nothing but his boxers, hair still messy from sleep, humming some old song as you sat on the counter, wearing only his oversized t-shirt and the glow he’d left on your skin.

there was laughter. soft jokes. syrup on your lips that he licked off with a grin.

and when you finally curled back into the couch, your head on his shoulder, legs tangled under a shared blanket, it didn’t feel strange.

it didn’t feel like you’d crossed a line.

it felt like you’d stepped into something deeper.

he looked at you then, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, and whispered:

“you know… i think we’re still us.”

you smiled, heart fluttering.

because he was right.

maybe in the end, sex doesn’t ruin the friendship— it transforms it.

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push-the-heartbrake · 3 months ago

Text

𝘼𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘗𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺.

Third instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “Look at the poor boy, he’s got the unscratchable itch.” — or the one where you're overwhelmed and Spencer discovers he's an absolute munch.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 13.3k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI♡ Virgin!Spencer is back and hornier than ever. Cums in his pants, again. Oral and fingering (fem! receiving). Slight discussion about reader having mommy issues and her past (read the prior parts and it'll make sense).

A/N: It took me forever but here's the third part to the 'Home For You' Universe! English is not my first language and this is not yet fully proof read! Please tell me what you think and if you have ideas or thoughts about the future of these two lovebirds. ♡

It had been raining when you woke up.

The soft, whispery kind. The kind that worked as a lullaby. The kind that made the whole city feel like it had collectively decided to sleep in.

The only reason you’d even stirred was because Spencer had moved—just enough to pull the blanket up over your bare shoulders sometime around 8 a.m. He hadn’t been fully awake either, just instinctively attuned to your comfort. You’d watched him through slitted eyes as he settled again, his profile soft in the dull morning light.

Neither of you had said a word.

Instead, you’d nestled closer, one leg tangled between his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. He’d made a little noise—one he always seemed to make when you burrowed in—a little half-asleep sigh out of pure contentment.

And that’s how most of the day had gone.

The rain hadn’t let up, and neither had you. No alarms. No responsibilities. Just a tangle of sheets, long-winded conversations about nothing, and the kind of kisses that made no sound from how gentle they were.

By the time afternoon rolled around, you’d only gotten out of bed three times—once to use the bathroom and get dressed, once for a late breakfast, and once more for another bathroom trip. Spencer had gotten up four times, the extra one to grab the Sunday newspaper from his mailbox.

You were draped across him like a sleepy cat, the sheets twisted around your legs, your chin resting on his chest. His fingers traced mindless patterns on your back, barely there, a touch just shy of tickling.

“Molecules move randomly, right?” you murmured suddenly, voice low from not having spoken in a while.

The glow of a lamp flickered against the spines of his current bedside reads, casting their titles in blurry shadows. One book was yours, obnoxiously pink, wedged between dense academic texts like it belonged there. Like you belonged there. Spencer thought so, anyway. You watched his eyes linger on it for a second before he looked back at you, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. You infiltrated more of his life and home each day that passed. Even if it was as simple as an extra toothbrush on the sink or your Converse placed next to his in the entryway.

“Yes, they do,” he answered softly. “Is there something on your mind?”

You shrugged, shifting so that your cheek lay flat against him now, ear to his heartbeat. “Just something stupid a school class discussed when they visited the library.”

He didn’t press you. Just waited for you to say something. Like he always did.

You absentmindedly rubbed your leg against his, your toes brushing against his calf as you talked. “There was a kid—one of those annoying twelve-year-old dweebs with a Justin Bieber haircut and permanent marinara sauce in the corners of his mouth—you know the type?”

Spencer laughed, nodding in agreement.

“And he tried to scare one of the girls by saying that since they move randomly, oxygen molecules could spontaneously assimilate in a singular spot in a room, suffocating anyone outside of it.”

His brow lifted, bemused. “Were you the girl he tried to scare?”

“No, no,” you defended, grinning,“I just thought you could maybe rationalize it for me.”

Spencer wanted to reach out and grab you. Bite you, even.

Because he’d never seen anything as beautiful as you, lying there on his chest, curiosity burning in your eyes, waiting for him to ramble on about something that you knew got the gears in his brain turning.

He’d thought you were pretty since the first time he saw you at the checkout counter at the library. But it had been fleeting, simply registering another beautiful human in passing.

It was different now. So very different. Because he knew you, and he could read your behavior, your quirks and traits. The way your mind worked. The strange little questions and facts you collected—like air molecules grouping together to suffocate you.

He knew that you had different laughs for different situations. He cherished them all and cataloged them like rare editions.

1. The little snorts that would come out of your nose when he said something silly, usually a pun that bordered on criminally bad.

2. The high-pitched giggles that wriggled out when his fingers skimmed over your sides, late at night when you were half-straddling him in bed and desperately trying not to wake the neighbors, making the giggles even more squeaky-sounding.

3. The loud, from-the-stomach kind of laughter—the kind you couldn’t hold back even if you tried—just because something was so genuinely funny. Like when he accidentally turned all his white shirts a soft pink thanks to a rogue red sock, or when he tried to surprise you with breakfast in bed but ended up spilling orange juice all over the bedroom floor.

You let out one of the first snorts now as he explained, nose scrunching up adorably. Spencer was fairly certain you didn’t even notice you did it.

“It is possible, though,” he said, tone casual, trying not to sound too eager. “In theory at least. In a system of random motion, any arrangement of particles is technically possible, including extremely unlikely ones.”

You squinted up at him, suspicious. “So… I could suffocate?”

“You can calculate the number of oxygen molecules and then find out the statistical probability, but I’m assuming you don’t really want to learn that?” Spencer suggested, his hand moving to his hair, shoving curls off his forehead.

You found his hand as it landed back down on the bed, lifting it to lay next to you on his chest, your fingers intertwining with his own.

You shook your head, and he felt your hair rustle, telling him that his assumption was right. “No… I just want to sleep at night without having nightmares about suffocating.”

He gently squeezed your hand, looking down at you reassuringly. “We’re talking about hundreds of septillions of molecules that would have to randomly gather together.”

Spencer knew you had a tough time sleeping already. Falling asleep wasn’t the issue; instead it was staying asleep. You would fall asleep at a reasonable hour (for someone who mostly worked late or even night shifts), but then after a while, you’d wake up and just lay there. You didn’t need the added stress of silly nightmares, but he sometimes got the feeling they already haunted you.

“So the chance is, like, microscopically small?”

“A septillion is a quadrillion billions.”

You stared at him for a beat, eyes slightly wide as you tried to comprehend the number. You weren’t even sure what a quadrillion was. Occasionally you got the zeros confused even at a billion. The number was huge, at least. And that was comforting.

Spencer watched as you thought about it, wanting to take a picture of your puzzled expression. “You’re more likely to shuffle a deck of cards and get them in a perfect order millions of times in a row than for all oxygen to group in one spot.”

You huffed out a little laugh before you mumbled, “I can’t even shuffle a deck of cards.”

“That I can teach you. Much easier than Avogadro’s number.”

“Avocado who?”

“Amedeo Avogadro,” he corrected, laughing out loud. “Italian physicist. He’s the namesake for the constant used to calculate the number of particles in one mole.”

With a slight head shake and a scrunch of your nose, you declared that math and physics weren’t something for you. “I’d rather learn how to shuffle cards and play strip poker with you.”

You pressed a kiss to his neck before he even had a chance to react, feeling his pulse jump beneath your lips.

Spencer was blushing—because of course he was. You always knew when you got to him. When your dirty words made his IQ split in half. You’d said it was one of your favorite things—the stupid and surprised look on his face whenever it happened. Spencer was on board with agreeing, even if the blush made his cheeks hurt.

Your lips brushed the edge of his jaw, and he let out a small, stunned huff. His hand instinctively rubbed your shoulder, your knitted cardigan slipping down from the motion, exposing the strap of your tank top—and the soft, maddening curve of your cleavage beneath it.

One (equally horrifying and fascinating) thing that Spencer had discovered about himself since being with you was that he was a boob guy. He hated to admit it—that something so primitively sexual appealed to him. But he was just a man at the end of the day.

Since seeing and touching them for the first time, he’d become obsessed.

Maybe it was the fact that you’d sometimes let him sleep on your chest, and he could unabashedly feel them as he nuzzled closer. Maybe it was the fact that your skin was impossibly soft and that your breast were somehow the softest part, squeezable and malleable, cupped in the palms of his hands. Maybe it was the way they bounced when you were sat in his lap, your hips grinding down onto his clothed cock.

Maybe that was it.

He was a boob guy. And not afraid to let his eyes linger as your cardigan fell down and your top got exposed as you pressed into the side of him.

Your tank tops were his undoing. It was simply sadistic—the way that whatever clothing brand had designed most of the tops you wore. Thin and soft to the material, a lace trim along the square neckline, and, worst of all, a little silk bow placed right in the middle. It was an evil trick, Spencer was sure of it, to make him stare down the valley of your tits.

Which he did. A lot.

He wasn’t sure if you’d noticed his little fixation, but you sure didn’t do anything to stop him from looking, almost on purpose making the tank top slide down a little as you lay on top of him, the cups of your bra now peeking out.

The ample skin moved as you pushed yourself against him, your breasts bubbling out of their confinement. Perfectly biteable bubbles. Spencer imagined putting his fingertip to the swell, just to watch the skin jiggle.

Oh Lord. This was the kind of greed they warned about in the Bible.

Despite all of this—despite Spencer staring you down like he wanted to eat you alive—you hadn’t had sex. Not yet. Spencer told himself it was a “yet.” Clung to that word like a little life raft. But he wasn’t sure how true it was.

Because you had a tendency to push him away.

It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, which Spencer had noticed. You made out a lot, kissed him whenever you got the chance, usually for hours on end. Like horny teenagers, he assumed. It was routine at this point—to watch a movie, or read together, maybe have a lazy conversation in bed after a long day—and then by the end of it, you’d end up in his lap, hands in his hair and tongue down his throat.

Spencer had gotten braver with how he dared to touch you, not always keeping his hand stiffly glued to his side. He loved to feel your skin between his fingers, whether it was your plush thighs or your soft waist. Boobs too, of course.

If he was capable of keeping it together, he’d wait for some time alone to sort himself out in the bathroom afterwards. But on more occasions than one (five times and counting), you’d made him bust in his pants. And no matter how many times you said it was the hottest thing ever, Spencer still couldn’t help but feel embarrassed to the point of no return.

And you… He’d only made you finish once. That first time on your couch on Valentine’s Day—when he’d rubbed your soaking clit with his fingers until you collapsed in his embrace. Only touched, not tasted, not penetrated.

Spencer couldn’t help but want more. And it wasn’t because of his lack of experience or lack of willingness that it hadn’t happened again.

You simply just didn’t let him close enough to even try. You didn’t show any signs of wanting him to help you out, and he was too scared to ask.

Can I go down on you? or Do you want me to finger you? were not questions that Spencer had in his vocabulary. Although he thought about saying them more than what was probably healthy. He didn’t know if it was fear from your side, or guilt, or something darker, and he wasn’t going to push.

You would only smile like you’d accomplished what you wanted when he was a panting and blushing mess with a spreading stain on his trousers, and then you’d continue on with your evening like nothing was different.

And you smiled in the same way now when you followed his eyesight straight to your cleavage.

“Any plans for next week?” you asked, almost nonchalantly.

“We’re consulting in California.” Spencer swallowed, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling. “Cold case that’s been reopened, something from when Rossi started out.”

You hummed and nuzzled just a little closer, your nose brushing the edge of his shirt. If he hadn’t been wearing one, your lips would’ve been right over his heart. The little sound made his stomach flip, which was ridiculous because you did things like this all the time. Making sounds, that is. The very human thing that was noisemaking.

“How long?”

“Flying out tomorrow morning, then we’ll see. Maybe a week?”

A week. Seven days. Possibly more. He really should be used to this by now, but the idea of not seeing you for that long made something inside him wilt.

You exhaled through your nose—soft, but unmistakably disappointed—and your fingers loosened from his hand. They disappeared beneath the blanket instead, toying with the hem of his worn-out t-shirt. It had the Caltech logo on it and was slightly too tight on him. You’d jokingly called it a crop top once, and Spencer thought about tossing it out until you said it was sexy. A personal milestone since it was the first time he’d ever been called that.

“What about you?” he asked, voice low. “Do you have anything planned while I’m gone?”

Now, your fingers brushed against the bare skin of his stomach. Just a featherlight touch. He tensed—he always tensed—but not out of discomfort. No, it was the opposite. It was the unbearable pleasure of being seen and wanted by you, and the helplessness of not knowing what to do with that feeling.

“Work. Sleep. Work some more,” you said, stretching your legs with a lazy yawn. “Help Edith set up her new TV. Maybe catch up with friends. Oh—and uh… lunch with my mother on Thursday.”

Spencer blinked, tilting his head. “She’s in town?”

“She technically lives here,” you said, pushing yourself up onto one elbow. “Unless she sold the place and moved full-time to Baltimore with her new man without telling me.”

He chuckled softly, but there was a strange ache creeping in at the edges of his laugh. You hadn’t let him meet her yet. You hadn’t let him meet anyone yet.

And he couldn’t figure out why.

He sometimes worried he had yet to meet the real you even.

You fit in perfectly when he introduced you to the team. Socially adaptable was what Emily had called you, like she could somewhat see through that you were nervous and uncomfortable, but still doing your best to be likable. And they did like you, a lot, it seemed. Soon you’d be off on girls’ nights with them, leaving Spencer behind. He knew it.

You sat up suddenly, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. Spencer looked at you like you’d gone mad. Until you pointed at the alarm clock on his bedside table and he read the time.

“3 o’clock,” you simply said. “I have to get to my place and get ready for work.”

“Why?”

The question left Spencer like an exhale. He could already feel a coldness spread in his body from where your contact was now missing. You’d made him hate the laws of time. Every time he was alone with you, he dreaded the moment you’d be apart. And every time you were apart, he counted the hours until he would next see you.

You laughed, turning to look at him with a raised brow. “You’re asking why I have to work?”

“No, I mean—” he floundered, “Why this late?”

“Because the library is open at night?” you teased. “Where else would geeks like you spend their time?”

“But there have to be other people available for the late shifts as well.”

“I got hired because I like working nights,” you said, standing and stretching, tugging your cardigan back over your shoulders. “The qualified librarians signed up for nine-to-fives. They’ve got spouses and kids waiting for them.”

“You’ve got me,” he said, almost too quickly.

You paused mid-movement, glancing back over your shoulder at him. “Sometimes,” you said quietly. “Other times, you’re on the opposite side of the country.”

He winced. He didn’t mean to guilt you. That wasn’t fair. But you weren’t wrong.

Spencer stayed in his spot as you started to move around his bedroom, padding across the floor to his dresser where your bag and clothes were. He only shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to be able to keep his eyes on you.

The pajama pants you were wearing slipped off in one easy movement, exchanged for a pair of dark-wash jeans. You didn’t seem to care that he was watching, which somehow made it worse. That he could spot the see-through material of your underwear as you tugged the denim over your hips—doing that awkward (yet attractive) little jumping motion to get them on—made him wonder all over again about why you didn’t let him close.

Since this didn’t seem to bother you, that is.

Were you waiting for him to make a move?

He hated that his mind did that. He hated that he still didn’t know and that he was too scared to ask.

“And I have picked up earlier shifts when I know you’re going to be in town. I’ve done it so much that Elizabeth complained,” you continued, arguing your case even though you had already won.

You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, as you headed back to the bed to sit down to put on socks. Little white socks with lace trims. No one would see them, but he knew the mere fact of wearing them made you happy—how the lace peeked out from the top of your shoes.

“Is Elizabeth the scary one with the owl necklace?” Spencer questioned, turning to you now that you were next to him.

“Mhm,” you hummed.

You smiled faintly and turned to pick something up from your bag. A tangle of headphones. An essential for you together with your iPod. You couldn’t go on a walk without them, needing the distraction of music blasting.

Spencer watched as you struggled to untangle them, wordlessly reaching out to do it for you. Not because he thought you were incapable of doing it yourself, but because you’d asked him for help multiple times before and seemed to like the gesture of him helping you.

He was more efficient with his fingers, anyway.

“Hey,” you said, glancing down at him, “why don’t you enjoy being alone for the evening? Watch some foreign movie without having to translate it to me.”

“I was going to suggest Bergman’s Autumn Sonata,” he murmured, handing you the untangled headphones.

Spencer watched your mouth press into a thin line, eyes flickering just slightly away from him. He didn’t understand why he mentioned the damn movie—like it would miraculously stop you from having work to do? No, it was just stupid.

He knew you loved Bergman. You talked about his work with the same kind of reverence he had for Russian literature. But you hadn’t seen Autumn Sonata. He hadn’t asked why. Not yet. But he made a mental note of it, filing it away in the ever-growing, completely normal, and definitely not obsessive folder of things about you that fascinated him.

Your fingers tightened around the headphone cord, twirling it between them as you quietly said, “I haven’t seen that one. And it’s got subtitles.”

“I know, that’s why I wanted us to see it together.”

You shook your head a little. “No, you can watch it and tell me what you think.”

“You say that like you don’t already know that you’ll love it.”

“…There’s a reason I haven’t seen that one, Spence.”

His lips parted, a question already forming—but you kissed him before he could speak. It was soft but lingering, and he felt your fingers curl slightly against the back of his neck. His brain short-circuited because kissing was still something he was getting used to. He was very aware of every single movement, every shift of pressure, every tilt of your head. Was he doing it right? Was he too stiff? Should he be—oh, your tongue—

And then you pulled away, smiling at his dazed expression.

“Will you call me before the flight tomorrow?” you asked, your voice quieter now, stripped of any teasing edge.

You simply wanted to hear from him. Like that wasn’t a totally insane thing to say. He couldn’t believe you expected him to behave normally in front of you. Or maybe you didn’t expect it, but it would get old quite quickly if he verbally, as well as mentally, freaked out every time you showed him affection—a certain need for him that you actually had and he still couldn’t grasp.

But still—

“Of course,” he said, embarrassingly quick.

You smiled, lingering just long enough to memorize the way he felt beneath you, before you straightened up again.

“Be safe. Have fun,” Spencer said, sitting up after you, closing the space you’d created.

“Fun? At work?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I have fun at the library all the time,” he teased, so close that you felt his lips against yours.

“Shut up.” You laughed into the kiss he pulled you back into, fingers curling into his hair, warmth spreading through his chest.

Seconds later you were gone. The door clicked softly shut behind you. The sound echoed in the quiet apartment like a pin dropped.

Spencer stared at the space where you’d been, his hands still half-curled, like he was holding onto the shape of you in the air. His shirt smelled like your skin—soft and floral, and a little like the soap he had in his shower. The sheets were still warm where you’d laid, rumpled and twisted, half falling off the bed.

He let himself collapse back against the mattress with a sigh, one arm thrown over his eyes. Your absence was growing inside of him, starting from his chest and spidering out like a nervous system drawn in light. A slow, luminous burn.

And he was terrified—utterly terrified—that this feeling consumed him far more than it ever would you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The case in California was… a weird one, and not the usual type of weird. Because that was a measurable thing for the team. A normal amount of weird, an abnormal amount of weird, and then thirdly—the weird kind they’d never encountered before.

This was the third kind. Not because of blood, death, and gore. It was stranger than that. Stranger because it was stale.

A forgotten cold case dumped on their laps like an aging puzzle missing half the pieces. Files yellowed with time, reports handwritten in blue ink fading under the fluorescent lights. Evidence stuffed in mismatched cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly in a converted conference room at the local PD—each one covered in decades worth of dust.

If this was one of those TV series about agents solving crimes and catching killers in the act, this would be the episode where everyone unanimously decided to stop watching because the show wasn’t worth it anymore.

No progress was being made. At all.

It was partly because the old detective was territorial and proud—only really letting in the help from Rossi—and partly because the leads went nowhere anyway.

They were most likely dealing with a copycat. It was one singular murder that had a slight connection to a series of murders committed in the eighties. The connection was: same small town in California that didn’t see many murders and the same M.O. used. Asphyxiation with a barbed wire.

They hadn’t had any reasonable suspects in the eighties, and the pool of people to look into now was even smaller. Or way too big, depending on how you looked at it. People handling barbed wire in a small farming town was a large amount.

When Thursday rolled around, they’d spent four days with this going-nowhere thing. Stuck in the conference room with their boxes, pestering old witnesses and relatives by bringing up bad memories, and at the M.E., looking at the new corpse for too long.

Maybe they would have to give up.

It was far more usual than what Spencer wanted to admit, but they couldn’t spend forever on one case when they had other ones waiting.

Rossi had gone with the detective to look at the crime scene once more. Hotch was outside of the conference room, possibly speaking with Strauss by the strained look on his face. Derek and JJ had gone on a coffee run, and Spencer and Emily were left in the conference room.

He wasn’t sure if Emily was even awake—sat quiet and still in a corner with her file covering her face for over half an hour.

Spencer had gone from standing to sitting to standing again.

He flipped open yet another file, scanning the interview transcript, but his eyes weren’t really absorbing it. Not fully. Not when his phone was sitting face-up on the table beside him, untouched since breakfast. The screen annoyingly black and the sound eerily silent.

You were supposed to have called by now.

Lunch with your mother couldn’t be a simple thing—he knew that much. He’d heard the tone in your voice whenever you mentioned her. A tightness that suggested years of subtle warfare and passive aggressiveness layered under polite smiles. Still, even the most drawn-out emotional lunches didn’t usually last past two o’clock. Unless things had gone wrong, and you were currently trapped in some kind of emotional gladiator battle over a Caesar salad.

Spencer checked his watch. 2:14 p.m.

You were never late without saying something. Not unless something had gone wrong. Which meant something had to have gone wrong.

The door creaked open, and he looked up automatically. Derek stepped in, carrying coffee and a half-eaten bagel. JJ trailed behind him, flipping through a folder.

Derek clocked Spencer’s expression immediately. “Look at the poor boy,” he muttered to JJ. “He’s got the unscratchable itch.”

Spencer froze mid-step. He’d been pacing, subconsciously. He whirled around. “I’m not in love with her.”

Derek smirked, taking a seat in his chair, leaning back. The exact kind of smirk that let Spencer know he had walked into a trap. “I wasn’t talking about love, pretty boy. But it’s very telling that you think I was.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. His face burned. Heat crawled up his neck and pooled somewhere just under his collarbone.

JJ gave him a soft, knowing look. “Then what’s wrong, Spencer?”

He inhaled sharply. “She’s not answering her phone.”

There. Said out loud, it sounded ridiculous. But now he was committed. He pressed on, pacing again.

“She said she would call me after she had lunch with her mother, and it’s now 2:16 p.m. That’s a reasonable time for lunch to be over, right? I mean, unless they got a twelve-course tasting menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant, in which case I would understand the delay, but they didn’t! Because they go to the same café every time, and it’s not a place that serves twelve-course meals, unless you count uncomfortable conversations as a course, which, in that case, I’d argue that—”

JJ cut in gently, “Maybe they just lost track of time? Had a lot to talk about?”

“But she doesn’t like her mother. Or maybe she does. It’s complicated—”

Emily, who’d been eavesdropping at the far end of the room, didn’t even glance up from her file as she interrupted, “No girl likes their mother.”

Spencer stopped mid-ramble. “That’s not true. I mean, statistically—”

Emily held up a finger, ticking off points as she spoke. “They might love their mothers. Unconditionally, even. But like? Like requires compatibility. And most mothers either carry a sadness that their daughters became something they never did, or they carry disappointment that their daughters became less than they expected.”

Spencer was momentarily thrown. He had a degree in psychology. He had read hundreds of case studies on maternal relationships. And yet, somehow, Emily Prentiss casually dropping this into the conversation like it was an immutable law of the universe had his brain short-circuiting.

The conference room went silent. A metaphorical tumbleweed rolled by.

Spencer stared.

JJ blinked. “Jesus, Emily.”

Emily took a sip of her coffee, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s not rocket science. It’s like if the Electra complex was actually useful and not just about male-centered attention. There’s a rivalry between mothers and daughters over everything.”

Spencer opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

“But,” he managed after a moment, “that still doesn’t explain why she won’t answer her phone.”

JJ muttered under her breath, “Who would’ve guessed boy genius’s kryptonite would be love?”

“I already said I’m not—”

“Reid, take a breather,” Hotch’s voice cut in from the doorway, sharp as ever. “The rest of you, back to work. We need someone to go to the crime scene again. ”

Spencer huffed, reluctantly collapsing into his seat. He stared down at his phone, holding it between both hands like it might sprout legs and run off. His knee bounced under the table. He tried to focus—on witness statements, on timeline inconsistencies, anything—but his mind kept looping back to one thing:

You hadn’t called.

Logically, he knew there were perfectly rational explanations for why you hadn’t called. But his gut—which had been trained by years of profiling and reinforced by knowing you—was telling him something wasn’t right.

He hadn’t ever thought of it like that, the simplicity in the words. How like could be stronger than love—because you choose what you like, and you are somewhat predestined to love. At least when it came to family.

Gathering their things, Spencer and Derek got ready to leave the conference room and join Rossi at the crime scene.

He heard Derek mutter something under his breath about how they possibly couldn’t gather any more information from looking at the same bloody barn again. Spencer wasn’t unusually cynical, but with this case, it was growing on him like moss.

At 2:21 p.m. his phone rang. A quick beeping tone, signaling a text message. It wasn’t often he received those. Everyone stopped in their tracks when they heard it.

Spencer’s eyes hesitantly scanned the screen.

He was right; it was a text. A short one too.

That was it? No Sorry, I forgot; no Lunch was a nightmare, please send a SWAT team, just a quick, impersonal abbreviation. Spencer squinted at the letters, blurring together. He still wasn’t entirely confident about texting as a method of communication. He had once typed out ’See you later’in a message, and somehow autocorrect had changed it to ’Seal utters’. He did not trust this medium, nor his ability to decipher abbreviations.

Across the table, Derek raised an eyebrow. His voice was lower now, as if he suspected Hotch to still be in the hallway listening. “So… did she answer?”

“No, but she sent a text,” Spencer muttered, “Got called in to work, ttyl.”

“Talk to you later,” JJ translated. “See? It wasn’t something worth getting upset over.”

Spencer slumped, staring at the message like it personally offended him. You weren’t supposed to work until 9 tonight. You had a night shift. You couldn’t possibly work from 2 p.m. all through the night. You were… lying.

“I still feel like something’s wrong,” he said under his breath as he put his phone in his pocket. Biting his lip, forcing him to not think of why you were lying. He had to focus on other things now. Such as… a bloody barn.

Emily, yet again, didn’t look up from her notes as she spoke, “Well, the faster that big brain of yours helps us solve this case, the faster you’ll find out if you’re right.”

Spencer sighed. She wasn’t wrong. But that didn’t mean he could stop worrying.

. . . . . .

The bloody barn didn’t tell them anything new. As evening fell over the little town, it had been decided that they were going home. The old murders would remain cold and the new case would be handled by the local police. It could probably lead to something. It just wasn’t enough to grant them being there for longer.

Spencer was torn inside if it was the right or wrong thing to do. But there would always be another case, always be another murder. They couldn’t get them all.

The team boarded the jet in silence. None of them had anything left to say.

On the plane ride home, Spencer did something he maybe shouldn’t have done. Or maybe this was exactly what you had wanted. He borrowed Emily’s laptop and downloaded Autumn Sonata, watching it all in one sweep, not taking his eyes off the screen for even a second. Emily had looked at him with worry—calling it ’Mommy issues, the movie’.

And that was what it was. Autumn Sonata unfolded like a violin string pulled taut over the little laptop screen. A mother and daughter dissecting decades of buried wounds in soft lighting and whispered monologues. It was 93 minutes of waiting for a rubber band to snap—either breaking clean or lashing back hard enough to scar.

“The mother’s injuries are to be handed down to the daughter. The mother’s failures are to be paid for by the daughter. The mother’s unhappiness is to be the daughter’s unhappiness—it’s as if the umbilical cord had never been cut.”

When it ended, Spencer sat very still, the cabin quiet except for the low hum of the engines. He understood why you hadn’t called.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

It hadn’t stopped raining for almost a week.

From the Sunday morning Spencer left for California to this very moment—early Friday at six in the morning, with your shoes squelching every other step and the sky still weeping as if the clouds had lost the will to hold anything back.

You had lost that will too.

You usually liked rain. Found it calming. Romantic, even. But right now? Your socks were soaked through your Converse, the sleeves of your coat clung cold and damp against your arms, and your jeans had turned several shades darker than when you'd left the apartment last night. Rain was not romantic. Rain was not poetic. Rain was miserable.

You looked like something dragged from a pond. Not a lot of people were awake to see you in this state, which was a saving grace of working the graveyard shift. That, and the fact that most of your mascara had been rubbed off by staying awake at the checkout desk all night, so you didn’t have to worry about looking like a melting member of the band KISS. Everything else was still miserable, though.

You climbed the stairs, keys jangling, counting each tired breath. All you wanted was to crawl into bed, cocoon yourself in something dry, and sleep until the world stopped being soggy.

It was all you had wanted to do since 2 p.m. yesterday—when you had gotten home from lunch with your mother, lied to Spencer about why you hadn’t called, and then fallen asleep until your night shift.

You had wanted to call in sick. But you weren’t sick. Just tired.

So you suffered through it. Helping a few stressed students, organizing the current popular books, and drinking so much tea your taste buds still felt burned.

But now, you were seconds from falling asleep on your welcome mat, even just seeing it outside your front door. A little bristly thing saying ’come back with a warrant’ in Pinterest-esque cursive writing. You had told yourself it was funny when you bought it.

However, the moment you unlocked the door and stepped inside, you stopped dead in your tracks, your cocoon of blankets having to wait just a little longer.

Because there was a light on.

The vintage Tiffany lamp on your hallway table, seeping light through its stained glass. You definitely hadn’t left it on before leaving yesterday.

With a quick turn of your head, you saw the shape of a man sitting on your couch. Alone there in the darkness.

“Spencer?”

He stood up quickly, startled.

“What are you—”

Your words got stuck in your throat at the sight of him. The man in front of you looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Spencer’s shoulders slumped forward, the crisp lines of his usual attire replaced with something wrinkled and weary—his sweater and tie gone, shirt half-untucked. Disheveled curls clung to his forehead. And his eyes… His eyes flicked from the floor to your face like they couldn’t decide what was safer.

“Edith let me in,” he said hurriedly, like he’d rehearsed it. “I—she had the spare key you gave her, and I just… I needed to see you.”

You placed your soaked bag by the door, the water from your coat already beginning to drop onto the floor. “You weren’t supposed to be here until tonight.”

“I understand if you don’t want me here—” he said quietly, eyes lowered, “Actually, I do not understand, not fully, because you won’t tell me anything.”

You blinked at him, shivering now that you were standing still. “How long have you been here?”

“We landed around midnight. I took a cab straight here.” His voice cracked at the edges. “I thought maybe if I saw you in person, you'd actually talk to me instead of… abbreviating everything.”

A pause.

“T-T-Y-L,” he repeated bitterly, “Is that really how we communicate now?”

You winced. “Spencer…”

He didn’t flinch exactly, but his shoulders rose—defensive, folded in. “You can throw me out headfirst if that’s what you want, but you should know that’s the opposite of what I want.”

For a moment, just a flicker, he laughed—something small and tired and helpless. But it disappeared fast. His face crumpled into something far too raw for someone trying to act composed. A dull, terrified shine behind his eyes. Like he was seconds from breaking again. Like he'd been bracing for you to become the next person to walk out on him.

You should’ve known he would catch you in your lie. He wasn’t easy to fool. It wasn’t that you had wanted to lie to him. You just hadn’t wanted to talk about…it. About anything, really. You couldn’t face yourself, let alone him. And you knew that Spencer could force it out of you by just looking at you in the right way, the walls of your façade coming crumbling down.

That was a terrifying thing.

“I’m just…” you exhaled, bringing the sleeve of your coat up to your cheek to wipe lingering raindrops away. “I’m so tired, Spencer.”

A similar little helpless laugh escaped your lips. Spencer dared to step closer to you.

“I can see that,” he said with a slight smile, just inches away.

But when his hand came forward to touch your arm, you tensed up, unthinking. It wasn’t that you had wanted to shy away. It just…happened.

Spencer stopped in his tracks, his hand suspended in the space between you, looking at you with a perplexed expression. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even frustrated. He asked it like someone who was hurting—like someone who’d been waiting far too long to understand why they were being kept at arm’s length.

“Because I—” you faltered. The words had come so easily to the front of your mind, but saying them out loud was a different thing.

“Because I’m terrified, Spencer,” you finally whispered. “I’m terrified of being too much for you and making you uncomfortable. Because if we start, I’m scared of taking it too far. I always do.”

Spencer’s brows pulled together.

You’d had this discussion before. You thought you were too much; he didn’t realize that he was enough. An evil spiral of sorts. Maybe he’d thought you’d gotten out of it, hence the confusion. But you hadn’t. Or it had at least returned, in full force, like a hurricane sweeping by and taking everything with it.

“When are you going to realize that I will tell you if I am uncomfortable?”

The look in Spencer’s eyes was now the closest thing you’d seen to anger. It frustrated him. The walls you put up around yourself, thinking you were protecting him, hindering him from being close to you—they frustrated him. Because now he knew the reason.

And quite frankly, the reason was stupid. You both knew it.

You couldn’t hide from affection in a relationship. Because you were terrified of it leading somewhere further? That defied the entire purpose of your relationship. It was a support system, a center of gravity. It couldn’t develop if you were scared of that exact thing.

Spencer exhaled loudly, shaking his head. “You always just… assume that I’m uncomfortable. For once, let me make up my own mind. ”

“You sort of… look uncomfortable.” You twisted, arms coming up to fold over your chest.

“I think that’s just my face,” he deadpanned.

You huffed a quiet laugh—half relief, half disbelief.

“But you never make the first move,” you said softly. “You’re never the one to kiss me first. Never the one to—”

He moved.

Quick, certain, finally—he closed the last of the space between you, and before you could get another word out, you felt your back hit the door. Not hard, just enough to steal your breath. And then his mouth was on yours.

His hands braced beside your head, then slipped down, anchoring you at your waist. It wasn’t rushed or messy. Just certain. Very certain that this was what you both wanted. Needed.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer and not caring if you got him wet. You could taste the coffee he must’ve had hours ago. The slight salt of your own skin where the rain had dried between your lips. His breath shook when he finally pulled away just enough to speak.

“Is that better?” Spencer whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me what you want,” he explained.

You should’ve caught on to what he was doing. For him to suddenly become all confident in matters of… love (?) was something you simply dreamt of. Maybe you needed to help him along the way, even though your stupid brain kept telling you that it would make him view you as a burden. As someone too much, too eager, too loud with feelings he hadn’t asked for.

Yet here he was… actually asking for it.

“What I want…” Your hands slid up his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm, ticking impossibly fast. That gave you courage. “…is for you to want me.”

“I do want you,” he said. “Painfully so.”

“I need to hear you say it,” you whispered. Then, a small smile. “Or show it. Pushing me against the wall is… a good start.”

“I believe we’ve established precedent,” he said, returning the smile.

You laughed, light but wrecked, and for a second everything felt okay again. And then you shivered. A cold, involuntary tremble you couldn’t hide. The wetness of your coat and jeans clinging to your skin returned to the forefront of your mind.

Spencer noticed it too. You couldn’t help the way your teeth chattered. He smoothed a hand gently down your arm, concern flitting through his features. “Why don’t you go get out of these wet clothes and lie on the bed for me?”

In seconds you saw the fear in his eyes, noticing what he’d actually said out loud. Intended innuendo or not. Spencer stumbled over his next words, hurried and ashamed. “If that’s okay, I mean—”

You continued to smile. An awfully content smile, like you were just waiting for him to notice that he’d done exactly what you wished for.

With a loud thud, you had shaken your coat off your shoulders, sneaking past him further down the hallway, saying a little sing-song, “Already on my way, Spence.”

You didn’t look back as you walked toward your bedroom. But you could hear him exhale—something long and full of relief.

Your bedroom was a sanctuary, always had been. Peeling off your soaked socks with your toes, you moved through the dim space, switching on the bedside lamp and the soft glow of fairy lights tracing the ceiling’s edge.

You sat down on your bed as you got there, struggling with the button of your jeans. It got even worse as you dragged the denim down your legs, the wet material sticking to your skin as your hands tried their best to get a good grip.

It wasn’t the rain slicking your hands anymore. It was a nervous sweat.

“You got here too quick,” you said as you heard his footsteps near the door. “I’m not done yet.”

Spencer lingered in the doorway, simply observing you on the bed, jeans pooling around your ankles.

“Jeans are difficult to get off when they’re wet.” You huffed out a little laughter as you pulled them off completely, tossing them to your hamper, landing on the floor. You should’ve hung them to dry immediately. But Spencer was more important.

Pantless, you realized your state of undress, reminding yourself that it was what he’d asked for. He wouldn’t be standing in the doorway if he didn’t want to see it.

You tried to decipher his expression. Soft smile, even softer eyes.

“Is that my shirt?” he quietly asked, walking into the room. His feet stopped when he was standing plainly in front of you.

You looked down at what you were wearing. Peeking out from your sweater were the edges of a pink dress shirt. One that he’d accidentally dyed pink in the wash. Spencer had wanted to throw them all out until you said that you liked the color pink. In general, but especially on him.

You could only nod at his question. There was no denying it. Looking back up, you caught a glimpse of an uncontrollable smile, where he had to fight the corners of his mouth from perking upwards too much, too noticeable.

“You wore my shirt all day? To work? To lunch with your mom?” Spencer asked.

You shrugged, lifting your rain-soaked sweater over your head, messing up your wet hair even further in the process. Spencer took it in his hands, throwing it over to where the jeans had landed.

“It smells like you,” you said, lifting the pink poplin to your nose. “Or it used to. I’m afraid it smells like me now.”

It was a comfort thing, you realized as you did it. Why you had worn it. Wanting a part of him near you, even subconsciously.

Spencer’s gaze moved slowly across your body, not greedy. Your thighs flattened out against the mattress, the skin in contrast to the rose-colored shirt. You felt his eyes on you as he took you in. He was good at watching, bad at talking—you concluded.

“Stand up?” he asked softly.

A little surprised, you obeyed, rising slowly from the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath you. Spencer stepped a little closer and let his hands rest gently on your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of the shirt—his shirt. His warm palms wandered down to your hips, brushing the hem of the fabric and the tops of your thighs in an easy movement.

He didn’t rush. Not even a little.

Not even as his fingers started to unbutton the shirt. He could’ve ripped it open in seconds, but he began gently with the lowest button.

You could feel his breath on your skin as he leaned in, eyes still focused on the buttons up the center of your stomach. His fingers moved with quiet precision, undoing one, then another, then another—his knuckles grazing your skin, warm and steady.

When he reached the last few buttons, right over your breasts, he looked up at you. Waiting for something. Your nod. Something saying yes, yes, yes.

With the last button undone, you let the shirt fall to the floor.

Stood there on bare feet in nothing but your underwear—your worn-out, simple white bra and a pair of cotton panties where the elastic had started to fray—you couldn’t help but feel the nerves settling in again. Steady and heavy, like a weight on your chest.

The air was still cold on your damp skin, but his hands were warm when they skimmed your sides. Spencer snuck his arms behind you, fingers ghosting over the clasp of your bra, waiting again, always waiting for the yes without asking it aloud.

And then, with two quick movements…

“Do I ask how you did that so well?” you asked, blinking as the straps slipped off your shoulders.

“I’m efficient with my fingers,” he said absentmindedly, still focused, eyes gentle but studious.

You blinked once, bit your lip. He didn’t even realize the double meaning—of course he didn’t. In his mind, “efficient with his fingers” meant things like… moving chess pieces or untangling cords.

But the way Spencer’s knuckles dragged along your arms as he slid your bra down made you sure that he wasn’t completely innocent or unaware of his actions. He caught the garment in his hands before tossing it on the floor too, his hands quickly back holding your hips.

You reached up and touched the side of his face. “Come closer.”

Spencer looked at you briefly. You knew the spots where his eyes wanted to linger. Then, he pulled his own shirt over his head, putting it aside. You weren’t entirely used to him shirtless yet, his pale, lean yet strong build hypnotizing to you. His arms wrapped around you, skin to skin, almost pulling your feet off the floor as he embraced you. His chest was warm against yours, and you buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

“You still smell like you, at least,” you whispered.

Spencer smiled against your hair. “That’s good.”

He was gentle as he led you towards the bed, the back of your knees bucking as you hit the mattress. In a brief moment of disconnect, you shuffled to lie on the bed, sighing as your head hit your mountain of pillows.

With one leg propped onto the bed, Spencer waited a moment before he joined you. He loved seeing your skin. As simple as it was. He could get lost as his eyes trailed the texture of it. Scars, bumps, bruises, and birthmarks. Almost completely naked too. He wasn’t just a boob guy—he was a you guy. That was easier to get on board with than the simple stereotype that boobs were just great.

Spencer got in beside you, a slight touch of his fingers all the way from your ankle up to your shoulder as he settled on top of the covers. On his side, his body cradling yours.

His palm rested flatly on your stomach, moving with your heavy breathing up and down. You didn’t say anything but turned your head to meet his, lazily adjusting forward to kiss him. Kissing him was all you needed to feel safe. To feel that it was true.

With a soft, open-mouthed trail, Spencer left kisses all over your face, down your neck, and chest. His hands started to roam as well, carefully gripping at your skin.

“Let me take care of you, angel,” he whispered as his mouth landed in the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you with golden warm eyes.

“Angel? That’s new,” you whispered back. Once his fingers dared to wander so low that he could run them over the fabric of your panties, feeling your arousal that had soaked through, you audibly hitched your breath. “I— I like it.”

Spencer moved his body to hover over you, lowering down between your legs as you purposefully spread them apart. He was a scrawny mess of limbs most of the time, but somehow felt natural crouching together at the edge of your bed to face your most desperate parts.

“Tell me what you want,” Spencer said, his hands touching over the soft swell of your stomach, down to your hips, but hesitant when they came back up, nudging the underside of your breasts. His nerves were finally showing. “And I’ll do my best.”

You intertwined your fingers with him, making sure to have eye contact as you teased, “All bark, no bite, huh?”

Spencer was flustered. You’d seen through his confident act since it began, but you enjoyed watching him try. He opened his mouth to say something, shutting it just as fast as he overthought. It was like you could see his decision-making happening, the signals connecting in his brain.

“Do you want me to explore instead? Trial and error?” he finally asked, tilting his head slightly with a boyish grin. He took small breaths that you could feel against your stomach, waiting for an answer. “Because I have a few ideas I’d like to try.”

You couldn’t wait to pick his brain, wondering exactly where he had gotten his ideas from. He was an anomaly as is. It wouldn’t be from an adult film or magazine. Knowing Spencer, it was something scientifically proven or from literature written centuries ago.

“You—you can try,” you breathed out, running a hand over your face, feeling the warmth from your own cheeks. He could fluster you too. “Y’know that you don’t have to, like—you can stop immediately if you don’t like it—”

He cut you off. “Let me try before you decide for me.”

Assertive. That was new.

With the same warm eyes from before, he sought you out as his fingers found the hem of your underwear. You nodded eagerly, lower lip lodged between your teeth.

You wanted to help him—rip the fabric off in seconds. But he took his time. Agonizingly slow as he bunched the sides up between his hands and started to pull them down your legs, shifting your hips slightly upwards to ease the process.

You kicked them onto the floor with the help of your foot as soon as you were able. There was something desperate growing inside of you as Spencer found his place between your legs again.

He was big with his movements first, heating your skin up—your stomach and thighs—using the warmth from his palms. Softly cupping your boobs, he pushed them together as his thumbs toyed with the nipples. Then he was gentle, with smaller movements. As Spencer’s fingers slid all the way to your pussy, slowly spreading your lips apart with pressure on each side.

His thumb was first to touch your clit. Barely any pressure, just to watch your reaction to it. He pulled away, to see your wetness cling to his skin, before he gently swiped over it again.

Spencer looked at you in a way you weren’t sure you’d experienced before—with a certain awe or fascination. Really took in the view of you naked, like he had all the time in the world. It felt intimate in a weird way. But not necessarily uncomfortable. You cursed yourself for being used to guys who fucked you with the lights turned off or under blankets, not someone who would drink in the sight of you aroused.

On Valentine’s Day, when the first piece of your sexual puzzle together had been laid, you almost hadn’t had the time to feel nervous. You’d been too focused on Spencer and on his pleasure. When he had wanted to get you off with his fingers after your little dry humping session, you’d let him do it in a (desperate) heartbeat. That you hadn’t shaved or that no one had seen you naked in close to three years wasn’t at the forefront of your mind then.

It was painfully obvious to you now, though. An outgrown little thatch of hair, your leaking entrance clenching around nothing, and your skin… flawed.

Resting his cheek on your thigh, Spencer tilted his head to look up at you, his finger inches away from tapping your clit again.

“I don’t tell you enough how pretty you are.”

He said it simply. Easy. No qualms.

Your brain shut off for a moment when you saw him lick his lips as he touched your pussy again, your eyes squeezing shut at the tingling pleasure.

You truly did look pretty through Spencer’s eyes. Angelic even, the accidental pet name he had used suited you perfectly. With your damp hair clinging to you, your skin still slightly cold to the touch, your nipples pebbled like peaks.

“Can I—”

Spencer couldn’t finish the question, the words stuck in his throat. Slightly mesmerized by the view in front of him, he teased the pad of his index finger around your clit, down towards the entrance, gathering your wetness along his digit.

“You can finger me—yes, Spencer.”

With a low groan, you hummed in agreement as he began to push the finger inside of you.

It slipped in easily, even though it was noticeably bigger than what you were used to. Your own fingers would do nothing after this. He was tentative at first, like he took in the feeling of your cunt, warm and tight, around his finger.

“Is this—Am I doing it right?”

He sounded slightly worried but just as he asked it, he curled his finger upward, touching a spot deep inside of you.

“Oh, uhmf—” you gasped. “Right-fucking-there. You’re good at this.”

“I’m a virgin, not a monk.”

“Could’ve fooled me—”

With the building wetness, Spencer slipped his ring finger inside of you too, catching you off guard. He never took his eyes off of you, though, in case you would change your mind. But you didn’t. You couldn’t when it felt this good. A surprised curse left your already open mouth together with a ringing laughter, “Oh f-fuck you.”

Just the thought of you made his painfully hard cock leak in his boxers. Your taste, however, would send Spencer over the moon. You reached down to push the curls off his forehead as he finally delved in, leaving a series of kisses and nibbles on your inner thighs before you felt his tongue between your folds, his hands helping your legs up to spread apart even further.

“You’re sweet,” he mumbled. Just as quickly as he had said it, his mouth was back on you.

Tentative, again. But observing. Tuned into your body. Your reactions, your sounds. To every little touch he made. He tried out different methods, switching from gentle kissing and sucking of your clit to using all of his tongue to lap you up.

Your thighs closed around his head when he did it, your cunt tightening around his fingers as he continued to work them in and out of you, sucking even harder and longer on your clit. Spencer could easily piece together that it was your favorite part—the long, repetitive suckling. Together with his fingers touching that special spot deep inside of you. That was what brought the most mind-blowing little moans from your mouth, staggered and breathy. His observing nature made him a natural… and a mess, face glistening from your slick.

Spencer’s hair felt silky in your grip, tugging slightly as you settled into the pleasure he was giving you. You couldn’t help it as you started to rock your hips against his mouth, his nose pressing at your most sensitive part. Spencer choked out a groan as he realized what you were doing, the vibrations from it going straight into you.

Disguised behind your own cries, you heard him time and time again. Spencer’s sounds vibrated against your skin, sending jolts of added stimulation. He was moaning into you, clearly lost in the moment, just as much as you were. When you looked down, his hips were rutting hard into the mattress, desperate to rub his aching cock against anything, desperate for relief as he ate you like he was losing control.

“I’m close, Spence,” you gasped, shuddering, the grip his hands had on your hips only getting tighter. “That’s—right there, please, I’m gonna cum.”

He wrapped his hands around your thighs, pulling you closer than you thought was possible, continuing to whisper sweet nothings into your cunt, telling you to let it all go.

With one last curl inside of you and a couple of lazy kisses to your clit, stars began to form behind your eyelids as Spencer held you down by your hips. Your hands flew from his hair to your face, covering your cheeks as you came.

Spencer had noticed, even in non-sexual situations, that you were innocently shy about your own pleasure. Shy of taking, shy of enjoying. You probably always had been. But as he slid his fingers slowly out of you as you climaxed all up in his face, you were everything but shy. Your stomach tensing, your breathing stopping—and the sound, god what a sound. Deep from your throat, louder than he’d ever heard you.

With a curious gaze, he watched your pussy clench around nothing, twitching as you rode the very last second of your orgasm out. Slowly licking, he cleaned the slick from between your folds, around your cunt, before returning his focus to your face.

“Y’know, the female orgasm can last for up to 60 seconds, sometimes even longer.”

With your hands still glued to your cheeks, feeling nothing but burning heat, you malfunctioned a little as he spoke. “Why are you—oh my god, Spence. ”

He came up to lie beside you as you were still nothing but a panting mess. Of course that would be the first thing he’d say to you.

“Explains the aftershocks.”

You guessed it did. You’d be reeling from this feeling for days.

Spencer’s non-sticky hand gently took one of yours, removing it so you couldn’t hide your face. Intertwined, they rested on your stomach, still heaving irrationally from your breathing. You looked down at yourself, and at Spencer. Lovingly, almost. There were crescent-shaped indents on your thighs from his fingernails, your soft skin having spilled out between his fingers as he had pressed close to you.

He breathed heavily beside you too, still catching his breath. You had almost expected it to happen, but you still smiled like a fool when you realized it. The dark stain on his soft gray trousers. His bulge not so prominent, but still a sign of what had happened.

“Don’t mention it,” Spencer said, like through closed lips.

Catching his sight, you shook your head with a little laughter, “I’ll take it as compliment.”

And it was. Truly. To not always be the giver, but the receiver. And to have someone enjoy you receiving pleasure so much that it ends up bringing them their own pleasure. Again, you were ruined by men (boys, really) who were so focused on their own cocks reaching the final destination that you were only really there as a vessel for their own orgasms. You didn’t know the last time someone offered to go down on you, and for it not to be the result of you asking, making you feel like a burden for wanting it.

Turning to your side, you laid your head on Spencer’s chest, letting out a breath that felt like it’d been lodged in your ribs for hours. Your legs tangled with his instinctively, and you sank into the heat of him, body finally relaxing in the aftermath. It took about five seconds for the awareness to hit: you, naked, skin to his still clothed legs, with nothing but the slight stick of sweat and something more lingering between you.

One of Spencer’s arms curled around you automatically. The other hovered awkwardly in the air, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it—just a few inches above the sheets.

“Sticky fingers?” you asked, amused.

“Y’know, it’s not as sticky as I first thought it would be. It’s more… wet—”

As Spencer explained, you grabbed his hand without thinking, looking up into his eyes for any sort of intel but being met with a mostly blank stare as you guided the two fingers he’d used into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them slowly. Lazily, curious if it would short-circuit his brain as easily as you suspected.

You were not disappointed.

“Jesus C-Christ—” Spencer’s whole body tensed beneath you, mouth parting in a sharp gasp.

A slight giggle was your only response. Lifting your head, your cheek had left a faint pink imprint across his chest. Truth be told, the entirety of Spencer was flushed. Face, neck, stomach. He was a study in pale skin turned soft rose.

“It’s like I can hear you overthinking,” you murmured, your voice rough around the edges, the way it always was when you were soft and…coming down.“And you really don’t have to.”

He hesitated, then shyly whispered, “Was I… Was that any good?”

The corners of your mouth lifted, lazy and genuine. “It was really good, Spence. Did you enjoy it?”

You felt him tense beneath your fingertips. He didn’t answer right away, too busy internally dissecting the phrasing—really good? As opposed to just good? Or better than expected? But before his thoughts could spiral, you kept talking. Doing what you always did: catching him before he fell too far into his own head, usually with something crude.

“You’re better than most men by principle,” you said, casual and completely sincere. “You know where the clit is.”

Spencer groaned, dragging his arm over his face. “You really have no filter, do you?”

You laughed—low, warm, the kind that curled around his mind and stayed there. “Is that a bad thing?”

His voice came muffled through the crook of his elbow. “No. I love you for it.”

You stilled—just for a second. You didn’t say anything, but he felt the shift. The way your breath caught. The way your eyes lifted to look at him again, just to make sure you’d heard him right.

“You love me… for it?”

It wasn’t the first time you’d thought about what this was, what it meant. Part of you had worried once that maybe Spencer only loved you because he could. Because you were the first person to touch him like this, see him like this. That he was falling in love with the intimacy itself—not with you.

But that fear didn’t live here. Not in the quiet way he touched you. Not in the way he listened. Not in the way he waited—for you, for your pace, for your yes.

You knew, somewhere deeper than your mind, that this wasn’t a performance. Not a conquest. Not the story of the virgin who loved the first person who said “stay.” The stupid virgin who fell in love with the person they had given up everything to. (It wasn’t everything. Far from it, actually).

As you had grown to know him, you realized how foolish you’d been to ever think that. He’d never wanted this to be one-sided. He was doing it all for you. The two of you. The us. Because if it wasn’t mutual, it wouldn’t be worth it to him at all.

“Mhm,” Spencer answered seconds later, muffled but still easily understood. Then, after a breath, “Should we take a shower?”

Smoothly swerving the subject.

Your head tilted slightly. “Like…together?”

He nodded like it was obvious. “Yes, is that so weird?”

You grinned. “I’ve never seen you naked.”

Spencer blinked. “I—yes, that’s true. Technically. That feels… unbalanced.”

“Let’s even the playing field then.”

You pulled the sheet with you as you sat up, tossing him a wink over your shoulder. Spencer groaned under his breath—somewhere between overwhelmed and entirely thrilled, watching as your naked body slipped out of the room.

And in the quiet trail of your footsteps heading toward the bathroom, he found himself smiling so hard it almost hurt.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The water had already begun to fog the mirror by the time you stepped in, first wiping off the last of your makeup and letting Spencer quietly undress.

He stood beneath the showerhead, letting the stream beat down on his back and shoulders. His hair, flattened against his forehead, dripped steadily along his jaw. He’d slicked it back once, instinctively, and now little rivulets trailed down the line of his spine. The tips had already begun to curl again, wet and weightless, plastered to the nape of his neck.

Spencer wasn’t cold—he didn’t think he could be, not with the heat of the water and the anticipation of you coming in behind him.

Not nervous. Not exactly.

Just… aware. Aware of what this meant. Of how rare it felt to be so bare in front of someone and not feel the instinct to cover up.

He didn’t turn around when he heard the glass door open. Not right away. He just felt it—the slight change in the air, the extra warmth, the soft whisper of your breath as you stepped in behind him, saying a little hi.

Then your forehead pressed gently against his back.

That broke him a little.

Because it wasn’t a sexy thing, or even a performative one. It was grounding. A small gesture of trust. Your skin was slick against his, arms resting loosely at your sides, the crown of your head nestled between his shoulder blades like you belonged there.

Maybe you did.

He turned around slowly, and you looked at him like you’d been looking all along.

Maybe you had.

Your body was graceful in the low light, water gleaming as it slipped across your collarbones and traced down the dip of your stomach. Steam clung to your lashes, droplets staying on your cheeks. Spencer couldn’t decide what part of you to look at first. Your eyes always won.

He reached for the soap absently, trying not to fumble it. Jasmine.

The scent brought something up in him—unexpected and nostalgic. A low green bush outside his childhood home in Nevada. White, almost yellowing little flowers. His mother’s garden, where she’d hum Debussy and dig her hands into the dirt, fingers stained and nails wrecked but proud all the same. He remembered helping her water the jasmine in the summer, his small hands never quite strong enough to carry the big watering cans.

Now, years later, that same scent lingered in your hair. On your skin. Tied to you. Beneath his hands as he lathered the soap over your shoulders and along your upper back. He worked slowly, deliberately. Partly because he didn’t know what to do, partly because he wanted to feel all of you against his hands.

“That feels good,” you said, voice quiet with his hands running over your shoulder blades.

“Efficient fingers,” he said without a hint of irony.

You laughed, resting your forehead against his chest, water cascading down between you. “You still don’t realize how that sounds.”

He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “How what sounds?”

You didn’t explain. You just kissed the spot over his heart.

The water pelted the top of your head gently as silence filled the gaps between words. It wasn’t awkward. Not at all. Domestic, even. He thought maybe this was what safety felt like. This quiet comfort.

Spencer washed your back with care like you were something delicate and revered, and when he stepped behind you and wrapped his arms around your middle, you leaned into him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Eventually, though, the quiet gave way.

His voice was soft against your temple. “Do you want to talk about why you shut me out yesterday?”

A pause. Seconds long.

“No,” you admitted. “Not really.”

“That’s okay.” He tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear, brushing a droplet from your cheek. “I just… I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. For not answering me. Or for being short.”

You met his gaze. “How you made me feel isn’t the issue.”

“Okay,” he said, carefully. “Then what is?”

Your eyes flicked toward the fogged glass of the shower door. You watched a droplet race another down the pane. “The younger version of myself still stuck inside. Constantly screaming that I don’t deserve this.”

Spencer’s face softened, his breath catching in his chest. “Deserve what?”

“Being with you,” you shrugged. You tried to make it feel simple. “Being loved by you. Being in love with you.”

He wasn’t worried that you hadn’t said it back in the bedroom, because he deep down knew—past his own insecurities—that you loved him back. But he hadn’t thought about your insecurities in the same way, how they formed like thick brick walls in front of you and hindered your capability of showing affection.

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Did your mother bring out these thoughts? That you’re not deserving of love?”

You didn’t answer, not with words. But your silence thudded between you.

“She’s a…” you started, then bit the words off in frustration.

“You’re allowed to say it.”

“A bitch, Spencer,” you whispered, uncharacteristic of you to care about cursing. “She’s like comically bad.”

He didn’t laugh, even though he knew you meant to ease the weight. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. The water streamed around you, washing the ache away in some way.

“You are deserving of love,” he murmured. “It would be terrible if you weren’t. Because I love loving you. And I honestly don’t know what I’d do with all of this love if you didn’t let me in to show it to you.”

Your fingertips curled at his chest, right where his heart lived. Then, you reached up to kiss him. Softly, sweetly. Your inhale was shaky as you pulled away, but your voice was clear.

“I love being in love with you too.”

After a few more minutes under the spray, you turned the water off, steam wrapping around your shoulders like a blanket. The silence that followed was almost startling—thick and filled with your shared breathing, the kind of quiet that felt sacred.

Spencer moved first, reaching for one of the larger towels hanging on the hook. You didn’t even bother drying off fully before wrapping it around your chest like a makeshift dress.

He grabbed another towel and rubbed it through his hair—quick, automatic motions. But his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You wiped at the foggy mirror with the flat of your hand, revealing just enough to see the two of you reflected back— naked, wet, soft around the edges with fluffy towels in the low light of your bathroom.

Spencer stood there for a moment, drying himself with his towel, just looking at you. Damp hair, glowing cheeks, a surprisingly big smile.

“I know we’re having a sweet and sappy moment right now,” you began, trying to keep your tone even, “but I have to say—”

He squinted, seeing mischief in your eyes. “Oh no.”

“You were lying when you said it was five inches soft, Spencer.”

“Oh my—” He made an absolutely strangled sound—halfway between a laugh and a groan—burying his face in the towel while simultaneously trying to shield what was more than five inches, apparently. Maybe he’d been humble. “Don’t ever change.”

You grinned into the mirror, entirely smug and still somehow the softest thing in the world.

In a moment of courage, and maybe as a slight comeback, he reached for your hand, laced his fingers with yours, and tugged you gently toward the bedroom.

The bedroom was dim, the morning sun barely sneaking in through the slats of the blinds, casting golden lines across the unmade bed. The covers were still tangled where you'd left them, half-slipped onto the floor.

You paused near the edge of the bed, still towel-wrapped, while Spencer rummaged through his travel bag. He emerged with a button-down and a pair of boxers in hand, the shirt rumpled from being folded too long. It was another pink one. You could tell without smelling it that it hadn’t been washed since he wore it last. California, probably.

“Here,” he said, holding it up. “Arms out.”

You blinked. “You’re dressing me now?”

He gave a small shrug, lips twitching. “If you want me to.”

You rolled your eyes, but they softened as you raised your arms. The towel dropped silently to the floor, pooling at your feet like a sigh. Spencer didn’t react—didn’t flinch or look away.

Spencer stepped in close, his own towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. The shirt slid down over your arms slowly, the fabric catching slightly on damp skin. The hem fell mid-thigh. He only buttoned two buttons, in the middle of your stomach, leaving the rest undone and revealing most of what was underneath anyway.

But it smelled like him, and that was the sole purpose. You pressed your nose to the collar without even thinking.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, towel abandoned, bare thighs brushing the soft sheets. Spencer stood in front of you, pulling his boxers on beneath his towel before he too abandoned his in the pile of laundry gathered on the floor.

He didn’t say anything as he moved to your closet, opening a drawer you always kept a little messily organized. Underwear. You wondered if he panicked over the selection—if you would’ve judged him for grabbing a hot pink lace thong or the floral granny panties.

He settled on a safe pair in black cotton, just cheeky enough. Spencer handed them to you, and you giggled as you slipped them on. It seemed you still had to dress some parts of yourself.

Spencer then knelt slightly, just enough to be level with you, and placed one warm hand on your bare knee. “Now,” he said softly, “do we eat breakfast, or do we go back to bed?”

You looked toward the window, then back at him with a raised brow. “Spence, it’s 8 a.m.”

He just shrugged. “There are no rules. If you’re hungry, we eat. If you’re tired, we sleep.”

You considered it for half a breath, then leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Both,” you said into his shoulder. “I wanna do both.”

“Then we’ll do both, angel.” He leaned in to kiss your forehead.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡ Title and lyrics are from Ankles by Lucy Dacus.

౨ৎ [ masterlist ]

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #dr reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fic

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cressidagrey · 3 months ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 15: March 2024

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes:

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

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

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Gianpiero Lambiase

Isabelle: Hi GP, Um. This is Isabelle. Belle. Max’s Belle. Sorry for texting you out of nowhere. I hope it’s okay.

GP: Hi Belle. It’s okay. Max talks about you enough that it feels overdue, honestly.

Belle: Oh. Good.

GP: He’s very annoying about it. In a way that’s almost endearing.

Belle: Haha. Sorry.

GP: Don’t apologize. What’s up?

Belle: So… I’m in Bahrain. And I want to surprise Max. Like, sneak into his hotel room before he gets back from practice. Very harmless. Very stealthy. Zero crime.

GP: Did your doctor clear you to travel?

Isabelle: Yes. I have a note and everything.

GP: Because if you’re here without medical clearance and something happens, Max will kill me. And then probably reanimate me and kill me again.

Belle: I promise. I’m cleared. I’ll send you the doctor’s note if you need it.

GP: Good. Because if I was going to help sneak you in, it needed to be a guilt-free crime.

Belle: You’ll help?

GP: Belle, if surprising Max with you magically appearing in his hotel room gets him to stop moping around like a man whose soul was ripped out, I will personally carry you upstairs myself if needed.

Belle: You’re very good at emotional blackmail. I respect that.

GP: I learned from the best. (Max.)

Belle: Okay. I’m at the hotel now. Should I just wait nearby?

GP: Yeah. Give me 10 minutes. I’ll text you when the coast is clear.

Belle: Thank you, GP. Really. I know you didn’t have to.

GP: You’re good for him. That’s all I need to know.

***

The hallway was dim and quiet when Max stepped out of the elevator, still half in race mode — muscle memory from practice laps thrumming through his veins, sweat drying at the back of his neck.

He dug for his key card automatically, mind already turning toward data reviews and hydration schedules, as he opened the door of his Hotel room.

And then he looked up.

And stopped dead.

Because there, lounging on the couch in his Hotel room in Bahrain, wearing a loose fitting dress, her hair damp from a shower she must have just taken - was her.

Belle.

Waiting for him.

Max blinked once.

Twice.

He genuinely thought, for a heartbeat, that he was hallucinating.

"Hi," she said, smiling — a real smile, tired but so real — like she hadn’t nearly died two weeks ago, like she hadn’t ripped his heart out and stitched it back together in the same breath.

"Hi," Max said hoarsely, voice cracking slightly.

She stood up slowly, careful, and Max could see the faint traces of bruises still painting her collarbone under the neckline of her dress.

He didn’t think.

He crossed the hallway in three long strides and gathered her into his arms, pulling her against his chest so tightly she squeaked.

Belle laughed — a soft, breathless sound — and buried her face against his shoulder.

"You’re here," Max murmured, like he still couldn’t believe it, like he had to say it out loud just to make it real. "You’re actually here."

"I missed you," Belle whispered into his shirt. "I wanted to surprise you."

"You’re going to kill me one day, you know that?" he said, laughing wetly against her hair. "Heart attack at 26."

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, hands still clutching the fabric of his shirt.

"You’re not mad?"

"Mad?" Max shook his head, jaw tight with emotion. "Belle, I’m—" He broke off, swallowing hard. "I’m so fucking glad you’re here, I don’t even have words for it."

Her eyes shone a little too brightly, but her smile was steady.

"I’m cleared to travel," she said quickly, reading the worry still written across his face. "I’m fine. I’m okay."

Max leaned down and kissed her forehead — a soft, reverent brush of lips — before resting his forehead against hers.

"I thought you were at home," he said, voice low and rough. "Resting."

Belle gave a tiny, guilty smile.

"Technically, I am resting," she said. "Just... here."

Max huffed a breathless laugh — half relief, half something too big to name.

"And how exactly," he murmured, pulling back to raise an eyebrow at her, "did you sneak into a fully-booked F1 team hotel?"

Belle bit her bottom lip, eyes sparkling.

"GP might have helped a little."

Max stared at her for a beat — then burst out laughing, pressing a kiss against her forehead.

"Of course he did," he said, voice shaking slightly with laughter and something dangerously close to tears.

Belle beamed up at him, utterly unrepentant.

"He even texted me like it was a spy mission," she added proudly. "I think he had fun."

Max shook his head, still smiling, overwhelmed by how much he loved her.

"He's going to regret that when I promote him from race engineer to full-time Belle smuggler."

Belle laughed, wrapping her arms tighter around his waist.

"You’re not mad?"

Max kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

"Mad?" he echoed. "No. You’re here. You’re safe. That’s all I’ll ever care about."

She tucked her face into his chest, and Max just held her there — steady, grounding her, grounding himself.

***

Arthur spotted her near the Ferrari hospitality entrance, and for a long second, he honestly thought he was seeing things.

Isabelle —

Here?

In Bahrain?

He frowned, confused, slowing his steps.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

No one had said anything.

She hadn’t said anything.

Not in the family chat.

Not in any of the bland, polite “good luck” texts she sent before race weekends.

Arthur crossed the walkway toward her before he could overthink it.

“Isabelle?” he called, blinking against the bright sun.

She turned, smiling when she saw him — but it was a small, careful kind of smile.

Not the bright, easy one he remembered.

“Hey, Arthur,” she said softly.

He stopped in front of her, feeling weirdly awkward.

“You didn’t say you were coming,” he said, trying for teasing but it came out too sharp, too defensive.

“I didn’t know I was coming until a few days ago,” Isabelle said, shrugging one shoulder. “Doctor cleared me. Figured I’d make the trip.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked over her automatically — and caught, despite himself, on the faint bruising still along her temple, the shadows along her collarbone.

He looked away quickly.

Pretended he hadn’t seen it.

“You look fine,” he said too quickly. “You are fine, right?”

Isabelle’s smile faltered.

“I’m… better,” she said after a beat. “Still a little bruised. But yeah. I’m okay.”

Arthur nodded, desperate to believe it.

“Good,” he said, forcing a casual shrug. “We were all worried.”

Were we? a voice whispered in the back of his mind, but he shoved it down.

Isabelle looked at him for a long second, her expression unreadable.

“You didn’t ask,” she said lightly. Not accusatory. Just stating a fact.

Arthur blinked.

“What?”

“After the accident,” she said. “None of you really asked what happened. You just… assumed I was fine.”

Arthur opened his mouth. Closed it.

He didn’t know what to say to that — not without admitting that he hadn’t wanted to ask.

Hadn’t wanted to know.

Because if she wasn’t fine —

If she had been hurt worse than a few bruises and a night in the hospital —

Then what did that say about him? About all of them?

Arthur shifted his weight, uncomfortable.

“You’re here now,” he said finally, as if that proved something.

As if her survival was enough to erase everything else.

Isabelle smiled again — but it was a different kind of smile this time.

Tired. A little sad.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m here.”

And for the first time, Arthur wondered if maybe — just maybe — that wasn’t as simple as it sounded.

***

Lily hadn’t been trying to find anyone in particular — she'd just been wandering the paddock in search of ice cream.

It was so hot, that she really, really needed ice cream before she melted into a puddle of useless girlfriend.

Oscar had pointed her in the vague direction of the food vendors before dashing off for driver obligations, so Lily wandered across the paddock, sunglasses perched precariously on her head, following her nose (and the general vibe of "ice cream is this way").

She was halfway there when she spotted her.

A girl — no, a young woman — perched casually near one of the vendor stands, flipping through her phone with an easy kind of grace, looking completely at home despite the chaos around her.

At first, Lily didn't recognize her. She just noticed the calm. The way people instinctively gave her space without even realizing it. Like the eye of a storm.

Then she realized.

Isabelle Leclerc.

Charles’ sister.

The one who somehow existed on the very edge of all the chaos — always close enough to be there, but never quite tangled up in it.

Belle. The girl who had rescued Oscar from buying “the ugliest couch in existence in Monaco.”

Oscar had mentioned her, in the same tone you'd use for someone you admired without quite knowing how to say it.

Lily hesitated — torn between her mission for ice cream and her deep-rooted manners that said go say hi, you dork.

She picked manners.

"Hi," Lily said, smiling as she approached.

Isabelle looked up, and for a second, Lily thought maybe she'd made a mistake — maybe she was interrupting something.

But then Isabelle smiled back — soft and real — and it was like being wrapped in sunshine.

"Hi," Isabelle said warmly. "You're Oscar's Lily, right?"

Lily laughed, a little breathless with surprise. "I guess so."

"Finally, we meet properly. Belle Leclerc," Belle said, tucking her phone away. "You heading somewhere, or are you just braving the paddock chaos for the experience?"

"Ice cream," Lily admitted. "Desperately."

Belle laughed — a real laugh, the kind that made you want to laugh too. "Good instincts. It's basically a survival tactic in this weather."

Lily grinned, a little more relaxed now. "You wouldn't happen to know where the best vendor is, would you?"

Belle tilted her head thoughtfully, like she was considering the great philosophical question of their time. "There's a stand near the back of the McLaren motorhome," she said. "Less crowded, better flavors. Also, the guy running it doesn’t skimp on sprinkles if you look appropriately pitiful."

Lily beamed. "You’re a lifesaver."

"Come on," Belle said, already falling into step beside her. "I'll show you. It’s basically my civic duty."

Belle tucked a strand of caramel coloured hair behind her ear and Lily suddenly saw the faint bruising still lingering along Belle’s temple and just under her collarbone where her dress dipped at the neck.

The sight made something twist sharply in Lily’s chest.

"I—" she started, then bit her lip. "I just wanted to say… I’m really glad you’re okay."

Belle blinked, clearly surprised.

"I heard about the crash," Lily said quickly, "Oscar told me it was serious." She trailed off, feeling weirdly emotional for a person who barely knew her.

Belle’s expression softened even more — touched, a little shy.

"Thank you," she said, voice a little rougher around the edges. "I was really lucky."

Lily smiled, relieved.

"And also," Lily said, remembering, "thank you for helping Oscar with his apartment. He said you saved him from living in chaos forever."

Belle laughed again, covering her mouth. "He’s exaggerating."

"No, he’s really not," Lily said earnestly. "He had one pot and like three mismatched plates before you intervened."

Belle giggled. "I just gave him a list."

"And apparently taught him the existence of rugs and throw pillows," Lily said with a wink. "You’re a hero."

Belle was still laughing, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made her seem even younger, even softer.

Lily found herself smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

Without really thinking, she said:

"I’m really glad we ran into each other."

"Me too," Belle said, and this time there wasn’t a trace of hesitation.

And just like that — without ceremony or fanfare — Lily was swept up into Belle’s orbit. Adopted. Collected. Claimed.

No big declarations. No awkwardness.

Just a steady, unspoken you’re one of mine now.

Lily understood immediately how it had happened to Oscar.

And why Oscar had looked so quietly smug about it ever since.

As they made their way through the paddock together, Belle offering casual commentary on the chaos around them, Lily thought maybe — just maybe — this whole world felt a little less overwhelming when you had someone like Belle at your side.

Two girls who hadn’t meant to find each other in the chaos of the paddock — but who did anyway.

***

Text Messages: Lily Zneimer & Oscar Piastri

Lily: I just met Belle.

Lily: At the ice cream stand!!

Lily: We both went for survival ice cream.

Lily: It was fate.

Oscar: Oh no. What did you do.

Lily: EXCUSE ME.

Lily: I was adorable.

Lily: SHE was adorable.

Lily: We’re best friends now.

Oscar: That tracks.

Lily: Oscar. OSCAR.

Oscar: What.

Lily: I get it.

Lily: I GET IT.

Lily: Why you’re obsessed with her.

Lily: She’s sunshine wrapped in a cardigan and stubbornness.

Oscar: Yeah. She’s Belle. Everyone’s a little obsessed with her. Max just got there first.

Lily: Also she’s still got bruises from the crash and she was just out here smiling like a total champ.

Lily: I wanted to wrap her in bubble wrap.

Oscar: Trust me. Max is already trying. If he could put her in a Volvo made of titanium, he would.

Lily: Tell him to let me help.

Lily: I’m small but scrappy.

Oscar: I’ll pass along the message. He’ll appreciate the reinforcements.

Lily: I’m serious. I love her already.

****

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1Overheard: Isabelle Leclerc and Lily Zneimer spotted getting ice cream together in the paddock today. New power duo just dropped???

@/Turn1Drama: Not to be dramatic but I would lay down my life for Isabelle and Lily within 0.2 seconds of meeting them.

@/F1Receipts: Ok but… zoom in. Look at Isabelle’s collarbone. There’s… bruising???

photo attached: Belle smiling with Lily, faint purple fading along her neck/collarbone visible above her dress

@GridGirlsUnited: WAIT. WHY DOES ISABELLE HAVE BRUISES.

@/FerrariFeverDreams: Isabelle Leclerc is the blueprint for moving through the world with quiet grace and still kicking life’s ass.

@/F1WAGUpdates: UMMM??? ISABELLE LECLERC AND LILY (OSCAR'S GIRLFRIEND) SPOTTED GETTING ICE CREAM IN BAHRAIN?? HELLO??? THE POWER DUO I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED????

@/gridgirlconfessions: not to be dramatic but Isabelle taking lily under her wing is the SOFTEST THING EVER. I’m literally going to cry in the paddock rn

@turn1meltdown also. not to be That Person but did anyone else notice... Isabelle has bruises?? I am pretty sure she covered one at her forehead with makeup. but you can see one on her shoulder when her dress fell down as she got ice cream??

@/tinfoiltires: not to start a conspiracy but…do you think she is dating Lando?! I mean she is hanging out with Oscar’s girlfriend.

@/paddockprotectionagency: There is literally no evidence for that. At all.

@/F1TeaTime: ISABELLE LECLERC AND LILY PIASTRI SPOTTED TOGETHER IN BAHRAIN: GIRL GANG FORMING ALERT.

@PaddockSpy Isabelle "please don't perceive me" Leclerc and Lily "mystery personified" Zneimer together is EXACTLY the energy the paddock needs.

@/McLarenMayhem Oscar spotted hovering around Lily and Isabelle like a guard dog. Lando too???

@/PitLaneDrama: Theory: Isabelle was hurt recently. Not racing related (obviously). Something serious enough that the whole grid knows but fans are only now noticing.

@/FerrariFanForum: idk what's happening but if someone hurt Isabelle Leclerc I fully believe half the paddock would riot.

@/f1overheard: also... are we gonna talk about the fact that Belle still has bruises on her arms??? Faded but definitely there??? Is she okay??? Who do I need to fight???

@/chaosinsector1: She’s laughing and walking and eating ice cream but seeing those bruises on Belle actually made me want to fistfight a drunk driver in the middle of Bahrain.

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Max Verstappen

Oscar: Mate. Did my girlfriend just get adopted by your girlfriend??

Max: Good. Belle needs more allies.

Oscar: They went for ice cream and now Lily’s acting like she’s been knighted into the Order of Belle.

Max: She has. There’s no going back.

Oscar: ...is this what happened to me?

Max: Yes. You just didn’t notice. It’s stealthy like that.

Oscar: Incredible.

Max: Also — Can you tell Lily to keep an eye on her?

Oscar: Belle?

Max: Yeah. Doctor cleared her for travel, but… She’s good at pretending she’s fine when she isn’t.

Oscar: Got it. I’ll tell Lily. (But I think she already clocked that. She’s weirdly good at reading people.)

Max: So is Belle. That’s probably why they found each other. But yeah. Just… make sure she rests. If she starts acting like she’s invincible, let me know.

Oscar: Copy that. Spy network: activated.

Max: Appreciate it. You get one free pass next time I accidentally block you in quali.

Oscar: Noted. I’ll save it for when it hurts the most.

***

Belle had just been laughing at something Lily said — something about Oscar’s catastrophic ability to pick good ice cream flavors — when she felt it.

That snap in the air.

The sudden chill.

She turned — and sure enough, there was Charles, storming across the paddock toward them with thunderclouds practically radiating off him.

Belle stiffened instinctively.

Oscar noticed too — his easy grin faltering. He had had flopped into a seat beside them minutes ago, looking amused but exhausted after media duties. Lando Norris had joined them too, fresh from a sponsor event, stealing a spoonful of Belle’s icecram like a menace.

Lando now looked like he was considering dropping his spoon and running.

“Isabelle,” Charles barked, sharp enough that it turned a few heads.

Belle straightened, fighting the instinct to brace herself.

“Hi, Charles,” she said evenly. “Good afternoon to you too."

He didn’t bother with greetings.

He didn’t even glance at the others.

His glare locked onto her like a missile.

He pointed dramatically at Lando, who looked like a deer in headlights.

"Are you dating him?!"

Dead silence.

Belle stared at her brother, mouth slightly open, frozen mid-bite.

Before she could even start responding, Lando erupted:

"WHAT?? NO. OH MY GOD, NO."

He flailed so hard he nearly knocked over his chair.

"I would never!" he blurted, panicked.

Oscar looked like he wanted to sink into the ground and disappear.

Lily was visibly biting her lip, fighting back laughter.

Belle closed her eyes very slowly, inhaled through her nose, and set her cup down carefully on the table.

"First of all," she said icily, "even if I were dating someone, that’s absolutely none of your business."

Charles opened his mouth to argue.

Belle held up a hand. "I’m not done."

Charles froze.

"Second," Belle continued, voice sharp, "I am not dating Lando. I was laughing at a joke about Oscar thinking that horseradish is an ice cream flavour that should exist, thank you very much."

Oscar made a helpless noise of protest. Lily patted his arm sympathetically.

"And third," Belle said, her eyes narrowing, "I would like to remind you that last year, you accused me of flirting with GP because we had a five-minute conversation about kitchen backsplashes."

Oscar actually choked on his yogurt.

Lando snorted so loudly he nearly fell out of his chair.

Charles, flushing red, spluttered, "That was — that was different!"

"Was it?" Belle said, crossing her arms. "Was it really, Charles? I am an adult," she said crisply. "I am capable of talking to men without planning a wedding, thank you."

Belle took a slow step forward, closing the space between them — not enough to make a scene, but enough that he had to really look at her.

At the fading bruises on her skin.

At the shadows under her eyes.

At the way she stood — a little too still, a little too tired — but standing all the same.

“I survived a car crash two weeks ago,” Belle said, voice quiet but razor-sharp. “I’m allowed to eat ice cream with my friends without needing your permission, Charles.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue — to scold her somehow, as if she hadn’t earned the right to live her life on her own terms — but for once, no words came out.

Belle didn’t wait for them either.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

Lando: I’M GOING TO DIE.

Lando: I’M ACTUALLY GOING TO DIE.

Carlos: What happened now?

Lando: CHARLES. CHARLES HAPPENED.

Lando: HE THINKS I’M DATING BELLE.

Lewis: Wait, dating?? What did you do?

Lando: NOTHING. WE TALKED ABOUT ICE CREAM TOPPINGS.

Daniel: …please tell me you’re joking.

Oscar: He’s not.

Lando: I SWEAR.

Lando: I WAS TALKING ABOUT OREOS.

Lando: AND SPRINKLES.

Lando: AND NOW I’M A DEAD MAN.

Daniel: This is incredible. Never change.

Carlos: Sprinkles = romantic commitment now. Good to know.

Lando: CHARLES LOOKED AT ME LIKE HE WAS ALREADY DIGGING THE GRAVE.

Lando: I’M INNOCENT.

Oscar: Tell it to the judge. (aka Charles.)

Lando: I NEED WITNESSES.

Lewis: Your Honor, all he did was sprinkle some toppings.

Daniel: GUILTY. Of flirting with ice cream.

Oscar: Death by suspicious glances.

Lando: THIS IS A MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE.

Carlos: Charles said guilty. Sprinkle boy must suffer.

Lando: I HATE YOU ALL.

Oscar: Love you too, Sprinkle Boy.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Update from the chaos front: Charles now thinks I’m dating Lando.

Max: First GP. Now Lando. Who’s next? Helmut?

Isabelle: PLEASE.

Max: Imagine explaining that one to the family.

Isabelle: At this point I think they’d believe anything. I just need to talk to someone and apparently it’s a full-blown scandal.

Max: Good thing you already have a secret boyfriend. ME.

Isabelle: The only one that matters. (And the only one who would never judge my ice cream topping choices.)

Max: Correct. As your official and only secret boyfriend, I feel like maybe it’s time to make you an honest woman.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: All I’m saying is if you wore a ring, maybe Charles would stop suspecting every man who breathes near you.

Isabelle: You’re lucky you’re cute.

Max: I’m lucky for a lot of reasons. You’re the biggest one.

***

David Coulthard had been around Formula One long enough to notice things.

He noticed when a driver had a new sponsor before anyone said a word.

He noticed when a pit crew moved two tenths faster than last season.

And he noticed — very easily — when something was going on off-track.

It started with Max.

Max was... Different.

Still sharp, still competitive — God help anyone who thought the fire had gone — but... softer around the edges, somehow.

Less likely to bite a journalist’s head off.

Laughing more. Smiling — smiling! — during media duties instead of looking like he wanted to physically vanish into the concrete.

David had filed it away, mildly amused.

Maybe maturity.

Maybe something else.

But then Bahrain happened.

And David saw her.

He was standing near the Red Bull hospitality tent, making small talk with Christian Horner about the new season, when he caught the sight of her.

Isabelle Leclerc.

Charles' little sister.

Quiet. Polite. Always seemed to hover just outside the spotlight.

She was walking across the paddock, a small tote bag slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched on her head — casual, unnoticed by most of the chaos around her.

Except Max noticed.

Max, who’d been standing half-turned, mid-conversation with a Red Bull engineer, stopped mid-sentence when he saw her.

David watched — curious, instinct pricking at the back of his neck — as Max’s entire face softened.

Not just fond — no, no.

Absolutely gone.

Max excused himself a little too quickly. Caught up with her a few paces later, walking just a little too close, talking low and quiet.

David tilted his head, observing like a man watching a slow car crash — except it wasn’t a crash at all. It was... intimate.

Isabelle laughed at something Max said — and David watched Max practically beam like a golden retriever who’d just been handed a steak.

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

Well, well, well.

Later that afternoon, while pretending to be busy near the media center, David caught another moment.

Isabelle was perched on the low wall near the Red Bull motorhome, sipping from a bottle of water, flipping through something on her phone.

Max came out the door — helmet in hand, race suit half unzipped — and immediately bee-lined toward her.

Not toward the engineers.

Not toward the debrief room.

Her.

And when he thought no one was looking, Max leaned down and pressed a kiss — soft, fast, familiar — to the top of her head.

David raised his eyebrows.

Oh, it wasn’t just a thing.

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t nothing.

This was serious.

And judging by how utterly comfortable they were — how instinctively they gravitated toward each other without even thinking — it had been serious for a while.

David smirked to himself, pulling out his phone.

Text to Mark Webber:I bet you a bottle of wine Max Verstappen is dating Isabelle Leclerc. Long term. Dead serious.

Mark:WHATexplain immediately

David chuckled, pocketing his phone.

Oh, he wasn’t going to explain everything yet.

Where was the fun in that?

He was going to sit back, enjoy the slow unfolding chaos, and wait for the paddock to finally catch up to what he already knew:

Max Verstappen was utterly, completely, irrevocably in love.

And her last name was Leclerc.

God, the 2024 season was already looking fantastic.

***

Mark Webber prided himself on keeping his ear to the ground.

Or, at the very least, knowing when David bloody Coulthard was onto something juicy.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that text message.

I bet you a bottle of wine Max Verstappen is dating Isabelle Leclerc. Long term. Dead serious.

Dead serious.

David didn’t throw those words around lightly.

So, naturally, Mark did what any sane, mature, retired driver would do.

He went hunting for information.

It wasn’t like he could just ask Max — not without getting a death stare and possibly a Red Bull can thrown at his head.

No, he needed someone younger. Someone adjacent. Someone... less likely to suspect an ambush.

He spotted Oscar near the McLaren garage, fiddling with a water bottle, looking far too innocent for a man in the Formula One paddock.

Perfect.

Mark strolled over casually, hands in his pockets, wearing the most nonchalant face he could muster.

Oscar looked up, blinking like a deer in headlights.

"Hey, mate," Mark said smoothly. "Quick one for you."

Oscar looked instantly suspicious — good lad, instincts sharp — but he nodded.

Mark leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Any idea if Max Verstappen’s dating Isabelle Leclerc?"

Oscar choked so hard on absolutely nothing that he physically stumbled back a step.

Mark arched a brow. "That’s a yes?"

"How—" Oscar spluttered, looking around wildly like he expected FIA officials to pop out of the bushes. "How do you know that?!"

Mark laughed, genuinely delighted. "Ohhh, mate, you just confirmed it for me."

Oscar groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I didn’t confirm anything! I just— I mean—" He lowered his voice urgently. "It’s, like, a massive secret."

Mark chuckled, utterly unbothered. "Not that massive if Coulthard noticed it after one afternoon."

Oscar buried his face in his hands. "I’m so dead. Max is going to kill me. I didn’t say anything!"

"You didn’t have to." Mark clapped him on the shoulder, grinning like the cat that got the cream. "Cheers, mate. Appreciate it."

He turned to saunter away — job done, day made — leaving poor Oscar standing there, looking absolutely haunted.

Mark was already pulling out his phone to text David back: Oscar just confirmed it. Owe you a bottle. Also this is incredible.

God, he loved this sport.

***

The restaurant was loud, chaotic in the way all post-race celebrations were, but Max didn’t mind.

Not tonight.

The Bahrain Grand Prix trophy was already back at the hotel, forgotten for the moment — because the real prize was sitting right next to him, curled into the booth, tucked safely under his arm.

Belle.

Max still hadn't entirely recovered from seeing her waiting for him after free practice a few nights ago — real, alive, breathing.

Now, with her hair soft around her face, wearing a simple sundress that made her look even more breakable and beautiful under the low lights, he could barely keep his hands off her.

And he didn’t have to.

Not here.

Not when everyone thought she was just Isabelle Leclerc, Charles’ sweet little sister, along for the ride.

Max smirked to himself, sliding his hand a little higher on her thigh under the table, tracing small, lazy circles against the fabric of her dress.

Belle looked up at him, cheeks flushing immediately, but her eyes sparkled — delighted, conspiratorial.

God, he loved her.

Lando, unfortunately, was sitting across the table — and he was dying.

Max could feel it.

Every time Max leaned in closer to Belle, murmuring something low in her ear, Lando shifted violently in his seat like he was physically restraining himself from making a scene.

It was beautiful.

"So," Belle said, teasingly soft, tilting her head up toward him, "how does it feel to add another trophy to the collection?"

Max shrugged, smirking, fully aware that Charles — sitting a few seats away — was half-listening while pretending to be absorbed in the menu.

"Don’t care about trophies," Max said easily, keeping his voice just loud enough to carry.

Belle blinked up at him, playing along.

"Oh no? What do you care about, then?"

Max leaned down, his mouth brushing just over the shell of her ear, and said, so low that it was a miracle only Lando seemed to catch it:

"You’re the only trophy I want."

Belle flushed scarlet, her hand tightening briefly around the napkin in her lap, her breath catching visibly.

Max smiled against her temple, smug and helplessly in love.

Across the table, Lando made a tiny, strangled noise and buried his face in his hands.

Charles — bless his stupid, oblivious soul — just looked up from the menu and said, casually:

"You’re not even looking at dessert, Max. You’re going to miss the good stuff."

Max didn't even blink.

"I already have the good stuff," he said without missing a beat, eyes locked firmly on Belle.

Belle made a tiny, helpless noise that she immediately disguised with a cough.

Lando kicked Max hard under the table, and Max barely resisted kicking him back.

Charles, meanwhile, just shrugged and went back to the menu, completely, fantastically unaware.

Max felt Belle’s hand slide into his under the table, squeezing once — a secret, silent, trembling squeeze — and he squeezed back, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.

She was his.

And one day soon —

He wasn’t going to hide it anymore.

But for now?

He could live like this.

With Belle flushed and smiling at his side, Lando dying quietly across from him, and the rest of the world too blind to see that Max Verstappen had already won the only race that ever really mattered.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

Lando: I almost DIED at dinner.

Oscar: What happened??

Lando: Max flirted with Belle. In front of Charles. Like, full-on heart eyes and whispered sweet nothings.

Carlos: Please tell me Charles noticed.

Lando: HE DIDN’T. He told Max to look at the dessert menu.

Lando: Max literally said “I already have the good stuff” while STARING AT BELLE.

Lando: And Charles just??? Nodded???

Lewis: Oh my god.

Oscar: I’m losing it. How are you still alive.

Lando: She was BLUSHING. Max was basically devouring her with his eyes.

Lando: I had to physically punch myself in the leg to not start screaming.

Daniel: You deserve an award. Like. An actual trophy.

Carlos: Or a medal. “Bravery in the Face of Complete Dumbassery.”

Oscar: Lando Norris: Survivor of Max-and-Belle Public Flirting™️

Lando: I’m writing my will. If I die because Charles eventually finds out and kills me, tell my mum I love her.

Daniel: Will do. Also, dibs on your gaming chair.

Lewis: We are NOT inheriting his Twitch setup, Daniel.

Daniel: You can’t stop me.

Carlos: Focus. The real question is: How long until Max just proposes and Charles still doesn’t notice?

Oscar: 50 bucks says it happens this season.

Lando: I’m raising you to 100. Because honestly? At this point? I can see it happening.

***

There were a few great constants in Formula One.

One: There would always be politics.

Two: Fernando Alonso would always find a way to be fast.

And three: The old guard — Mark Webber, David Coulthard, and Fernando himself — would probably end up at a hotel bar, drinking expensive whiskey and gossiping like teenagers at a sleepover.

Tonight was no exception.

David leaned back in his chair, looking insufferably smug as he sipped his drink.

"I’m telling you," he said, tapping the side of his glass for emphasis. "It’s serious. Verstappen and the little Leclerc."

Mark, grinning like a fox, said, "Oscar practically shat himself when I asked him."

Fernando’s eyebrows shot up, delighted. "You interrogated Piastri?"

Mark shrugged, completely unapologetic. "Didn’t even need to. Kid panicked so hard I thought he was about to call his mum."

David chuckled darkly. "Told you. Not just a fling. Proper relationship. Long-term."

Fernando leaned forward, elbows on the table, suddenly far more interested. "I have seen them together a few times. Very... comfortable."

David pointed at him triumphantly. "Exactly! No nerves. No posturing. He looks at her like he’s already married her and built her a house in the countryside with five cats."

Mark howled with laughter. "Imagine Max Verstappen in the countryside, bloody hell."

Fernando smirked. "You are both missing the real headline."

Mark and David raised their eyebrows in unison.

Fernando leaned back, satisfied. "When Charles finds out."

There was a beat of silence — then all three of them burst into laughter, loud enough that a few other patrons in the bar turned to look.

David wiped tears from his eyes. "Oh, God, Charles Leclerc’s going to combust."

"Publicly or privately?" Mark asked, grinning.

Fernando considered it seriously. "Privately first. Brooding. Sad playlist. Maybe a little crying in the shower. Then public disapproval."

"Disapproval," David echoed, nodding solemnly. "In that very polite Monegasque way. ‘I am not angry, I am just... disappointed.’"

Mark knocked back the rest of his drink, still chuckling. "Imagine the Christmas dinners. Verstappen sitting across from Leclerc at the table. Isabelle kicking him under it every time he tries to start a fight."

David grinned. "Max pretending to be polite for fifteen minutes before he says something that makes Charles’ eye twitch."

Fernando clapped his hands together, pleased. "This season is already perfect."

Mark waved down the bartender for another round, because frankly, they deserved it.

"We should start a pool," he said. "How long until it goes public?"

David leaned forward eagerly. "Or how long until one of them accidentally soft-launches it on Instagram."

Fernando raised his glass. "Or until Verstappen punches a journalist for asking a stupid question about Isabelle."

They clinked glasses with wicked grins, the unofficial F1 Gossip Club alive and thriving.

Across town, Max Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc remained blissfully unaware that three of the sport’s greatest troublemakers were placing metaphorical bets on their entire relationship timeline.

***

It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

It was just a haircut. A simple thing.

Isabelle had asked, gently, over coffee one weekend. "Would you mind coloring my hair again, Maman?"

Her voice light, casual — hoping it would sound like a normal daughterly request, not something heavy.

Pascale had smiled vaguely, barely looking up from her phone. "Of course, cherie. Make an appointment, and we'll sort it out."

Belle had smiled too, automatic and small. "Okay."

She booked it the next week, a Friday afternoon — easy enough to squeeze in around both their schedules. She texted her mother to confirm.

Belle: Appointment for Friday at 2pm. Let me know if that still works for you!

The reply came half a day later.

Pascale: Oh, mon coeur, Friday’s going to be tricky. Charles needs help with a sponsor shoot! We'll find another time, I promise ❤️

Belle told herself it was fine. Of course it was fine.

Charles' career came first. It always had.

She rebooked for the next week.

Wednesday afternoon. Easy. Flexible.

Pascale: Arthur’s looking at apartments. I need to go with him. Next week? ❤️

Another reschedule. Another brushed-off excuse.

Lunch with friends. Last-minute travel plans. A gala that needed organizing.

Each time, Belle rearranged her schedule like a good little daughter. Each time, Pascale’s priorities stayed somewhere else — with someone else.

And Belle — Belle stayed small and polite, pretending like it didn’t sting.

Eventually, after the fourth reschedule in three weeks, Belle stood in front of her bathroom mirror, stared at her roots growing out unevenly, the dull ends of her hair catching awkwardly in the light — and something inside her simply... cracked.

She booked an appointment. With someone else. No fanfare. No texts.

She sat in the warm, bright little salon tucked near the flower market that Emilie had recommended, letting a stranger mix a soft, golden color for her hair, hands sure and kind.

And when it was done — When Belle caught sight of herself in the mirror — she smiled.

Really smiled.

The soft caramel highlights caught the light, framing her face, making her eyes look warmer. She looked — fresh. Hopeful, even.

It was silly. It was just hair. But it felt like something more.

A line, quietly drawn. A choice for herself, not for anyone else.

She didn’t tell her mother.

Not at first.

But Pascale noticed at a family brunch the following weekend.

The moment Isabelle sat down, Pascale’s eyes sharpened, taking in the subtle change.

"You went to someone else?" she asked, light but pointed, the corners of her mouth tightening almost imperceptibly.

Isabelle sipped her coffee calmly. "You were busy."

Pascale laughed, waving it off. "Still, cherie, you should have waited. It’s not quite... what we would have done."

Belle smiled, soft and polite — the kind of smile she'd perfected years ago. Maybe not what you would have done, she thought. Maybe that's the point.

"It’s just hair, Maman," she said lightly. She didn’t offer to rebook. Didn’t apologize.

And for once, she didn’t feel guilty about it.

***

The chair in Simone’s office was comfortable — too comfortable, sometimes.

It made it harder to keep her walls up. But maybe that was the point.

Belle picked at the seam of her sleeve, her legs curled under her, staring at the little woven rug on the floor as she spoke.

"It sounds stupid," she said after a long pause. "About the hair, I mean."

Simone — patient, kind Simone — just shook her head gently. "I don't think it sounds stupid at all."

Belle exhaled, staring at her hands."I just... I asked her to help. My mother. And she said yes, but then kept rescheduling. Again and again. For Charles. For Arthur. For everyone else."

Simone nodded, quiet encouragement in the simple gesture.

"And it wasn't the first time," Belle added, voice thinner now. "It’s never the first time. I know that."

"And how did it feel?" Simone asked, voice low, careful.

Belle hesitated.

How did it feel? It felt — small. It felt like being fourteen again, forgotten in the corner while her brothers got all the attention, all the applause.

"It felt like..." she trailed off, fumbling for words. "Like I wasn't important enough to remember."

Simone’s gaze was steady. "And what did you do with that feeling?"

Belle smiled tightly. "I told myself it didn't matter. Booked another appointment. Let someone else do it."

"And how did that feel?"

Belle surprised herself by laughing — a soft, broken sound. "Good," she admitted. And then, more quietly: "Really good."

Simone smiled. "You made a choice for yourself."

Belle nodded, the weight of it sinking in.

"I didn’t wait around this time," she said. "I didn’t hope she'd find time for me if I was just... patient enough."

"That’s not a small thing," Simone said. "That’s reclaiming something you were taught not to expect."

Belle blinked, throat tightening unexpectedly.

"You were taught," Simone continued gently, "that your needs came second. Or third. Or fourth. Or not at all. And now — even in something as small as a haircut — you're learning that you don't have to keep living by those old rules."

Belle swallowed hard.

"I guess I always thought... if I was just easier, or more useful, then maybe they'd—"

She broke off, voice catching.

Simone leaned forward slightly, her voice warm and firm.

"You don't have to earn love, Isabelle."

Belle squeezed her hands into fists, feeling the sting of tears she refused to let fall.

"You were already enough," Simone said. "You always have been."

Belle left the session feeling raw — scraped open — but lighter too.

Because maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to take up space. Allowed to choose herself. Allowed to stop waiting for permission that was never going to come.

Maybe love didn’t look like waiting on the sidelines. Maybe it looked like laughing under new sunlight, caramel highlights catching in the breeze, walking into the world without asking first.

And maybe — just maybe — she could be proud of that.

***

Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Isabelle Leclerc

Victoria: Hey Belle 💛 Random question — do you have some time in the next few weeks?

Isabelle: Hi! I should, yes! What’s up?

Victoria: I need help. With the nursery.

Isabelle: 🥺🥺🥺 You want me to help?

Victoria: Of course. You have the best taste. And honestly? I trust you. I want the nursery to feel safe and warm — not like something out of a catalog.

Isabelle: 😭 Vic.

Victoria: I'm serious!! Also I’m too emotional and tired to pick out wallpapers without crying 😂

Isabelle: Say no more. I’m honored. When were you thinking of starting?

Victoria: Whenever you’re free! No pressure. (But preferably before I get too big to waddle up the stairs without a forklift.)

Isabelle: 😂 You’re glowing, not waddling. But yes, I’m free next weekend if you want?

Victoria: Perfect. We can have snacks and mood boards and a no-crying policy.

Isabelle: (That rule is for you.)

Victoria: 100%.

Victoria: Thank you, Belle. Really. It means a lot to me. It means a lot to us.

Isabelle: I can’t wait 🩵 Already have about 12 ideas brewing.

Victoria: I knew I asked the right person 🥹

****

Team Redline Stream – Transcript

(Stream already in progress. Max is mid-race, casually chatting with the team and chat.)

Chris Lulham: So, Max, what’s your girlfriend up to these days? Did she get a new job, or is she just vibing?

Max: (Laughs.) She’s freelancing now."

Luke Crane: "Oh, so technically working, but with way less stress?"

Max: "Exactly. No more crazy hours, no more annoying bosses. Now she actually gets to have a life."

Chat:

FREELANCE ERA LET’S GOOOO

Max won the battle against corporate life

Work-life balance king fighting for his queen

"She actually gets to have a life" he has been PRAYING for this

Bro was so against that job, he’s probably happier than she is 💀

Chris: "So what does she do with all her free time now?"

Max: "More time for the cats. More time for horse riding, instead of just talking about how much she misses it. She’s already been out riding a few times."

Chat:

THE HORSE GIRL ERA RETURNS

"Instead of just talking about it" I know that used to break his heart

He is so smug about this, I can hear it in his voice

The cats and horses are winning rn

Imagine quitting your job and getting more time for your pets and hobbies… she’s living the dream

Chris: "And I’m guessing the cats are thrilled?"

Max: (Grinning.) "Of course. She bought them a ridiculous amount of toys, so they’ve been playing non-stop. They love her more than me anyway."

Aalberts: "I feel like you’ve just accepted that."

Max: (Shrugs.) "It’s the truth."

Chat:

MAX IS A SECONDARY PARENT IN HIS OWN HOUSEHOLD

The cats chose their favorite and it’s NOT him 💀

"They love her more than me" bro just casually taking Ls on stream

Imagine being Max Verstappen and losing to your girlfriend for affection

The way he’s not even mad about it

Luke: "Wait, how many cats is it now? Still Sassy and Jimmy?"

Max: (Smirks) "Three."

Chris: "THREE???"

Chat: HE DROPPED THAT SO CASUALLY HELLO??? NEW CAT REVEAL LET’S GOOOOO

Gianni Vecchio: "When did you get a third cat, mate?!"

Max: "Christmas. She surprised me."

Luke: "Bro your girlfriend got you a whole CAT for Christmas and you’re just mentioning this NOW???"

Chat: WHAT A FLEX A WHOLE CAT Forget watches or cars. Max got a BABY TIGER for Christmas Proposal energy tbh

Chris: "What’s the new cat’s name?"

Max: "Lilly."

Chat: LILLY!!! Sassy, Jimmy, and Lilly — squad complete MAX IS OFFICIALLY A CAT DAD OF THREE

Chris: "Okay but real talk — she got you a cat, bro. That’s basically marriage. So does this mean she’ll be at a race soon?"

Max: (Casually.) "She already was."

Luke: "Wait—WHAT?"

Chat:

HELLO???

EXCUSE ME???

SHE WAS THERE AND WE DIDN’T KNOW???

MAX YOU CAN’T JUST DROP THAT AND MOVE ON

We have failed as detectives

Chris: "Bro. You have people trying to figure out if she even exists, and you’re telling me she was at a race and nobody noticed?"

Max: (Laughing.) "Apparently not."

Luke: "This is insane. What do you mean 'apparently not'?"

Max: (Shrugs.) "She was just walking around, watching, same as always."

Chat:

This man’s girlfriend is a stealth legend

MAX JUST CASUALLY DROPPING BOMBSHELLS ON US

She was among us and we were blind

I feel like he enjoys watching us suffer

WE NEED TO FIND FOOTAGE, THIS IS A MISSION

Chris: "Alright, new game. Next race, we’re all scanning every background shot for your girlfriend."

Max: (Grinning.) "Good luck."

Chat:

Bro knows we will NEVER find her

He’s enjoying this way too much

This is now our new conspiracy theory

Max Verstappen’s girlfriend is the Where’s Waldo of F1

WE WILL NOT REST UNTIL WE FIND HER

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@F1Detective: MAX JUST CASUALLY DROPPED THAT HIS GIRLFRIEND WAS AT A RACE AND WE ALL MISSED IT????

@TireDegEnjoyer:: Max: "Oh yeah, she was at a race." Us: "SIR??? AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO MENTION THIS EARLIER???"

@softmaxgirl: I refuse to believe we all collectively failed at spotting her. This is a cover-up. She’s in a Red Bull hoodie somewhere in the background. We need to check every race weekend.

@pitlanechaos: Max: "She was just walking around, watching, same as always." SAME AS ALWAYS???? SIR??? DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME SHE’S BEEN TO MULTIPLE RACES?????

@LandoStoleMyLunch: Max’s girlfriend has officially become the Where’s Waldo of the paddock. She’s there, but she’s a ghost.

@DR3sMullet: ANOTHER CAT?!? I DEMAND PICTURES. WHAT DO YOU MEAN SASSY AND JIMMY HAVE A NEW SIBLING?!!?

@PaddockTea: This woman is so committed to her privacy. Most WAGs get papped once and boom, we know their whole life story. Max’s gf? We don’t even have crumbs.

@SuperMaxStan: The fact that she quit her job and instead of immediately becoming a full-time WAG, she just started freelancing??? She really does not care about his money at ALL.

@F1Shitposter: What do you bet Max has tried to convince her to become his trophy wife at least once and she just refused LMAO

↳@UndercutKing: The way half of us would’ve immediately quit their job the second Max suggested it and she just… didn’t. Iconic.

@FrontWingDamage: Max is just so casual about everything. Like, sir. You do realize we’ve been trying to figure this out for months.

↳@RedBullConspiracy:WE HAVE TO GO BACK. CHECK THE FOOTAGE. FIND HER.

↳@F1Sherlock: He said it so casually. Like he didn’t just confirm that she’s been right there and we all missed it. EMBARRASSING FOR US.

@GridReporter:The fact that people are now scrubbing through paddock footage frame by frame trying to find a glimpse of her… I love F1 fans.

↳@McLarenMemeLord:Max: “She was at a race.” F1 Twitter: ACTIVATE FBI MODE

@SuperMaxUltraFan:At this point, I don’t even care who she is. I’m just impressed by the commitment to staying invisible.

↳@Horseriding4Life:"More time for horse riding"—girl is really just living her dream life, huh?

↳@SidepodDisaster:The fact that she chose freelancing instead of living the soft WAG life… Respect.

@RedBullChaos:She really doesn’t care about his money and I think that’s what drives people insane the most.

***

Alex Albon was halfway through his coffee when Max dropped into the chair across from him like the world had personally wronged him.

“Lilly’s sneezing,” Max said, without preamble.

Alex blinked. “Okay… hi?”

“My kitten,” Max clarified, as if that explained everything.

Alex raised a brow. “Right. Is she okay?”

“She started sneezing two days ago,” Max said, frowning. “Little sneezes. Like tchu-tchu. Not constant. But today it’s more.”

Alex set his cup down. “Vet?”

“Took her yesterday. No fever, no infection. Not her food. They tested for everything. Nothing.” Max looked personally offended by the mystery. “So it has to be something in the apartment.”

Alex squinted. “New plants? Cleaning products?”

Max pulled out his phone and swiped with purpose. “Switched laundry detergent last week. Isabelle lit a new candle. It smells like cedarwood and… I don’t know, something sweet.”

“Floral?” Alex offered.

Max nodded like he was on a crime show. “Possibly rose. Or jasmine. Something aggressive. I think it’s the candle.”

“Could be,” Alex agreed. “Some scents mess with cats’ systems. Especially essential oils.”

Max turned his phone toward him. “Here. This is her on the couch—right next to where the candle’s usually lit.”

Alex looked.

It was a picture of Lilly. Big blue eyes. Tiny paws. Mid-sneeze. The picture was blurry, chaotic, adorable.

But behind the kitten, sitting casually on the couch in one of Max’s oversized hoodies, was Isabelle Leclerc.

Hair pulled into a messy bun. Mug in hand. Bare legs tucked under her like she belonged there. Looking at the kitten with this soft, utterly unguarded smile that said: this is home.

Alex stared.

Max didn’t notice. “See, she only sneezes in the living room. Nowhere else. So I think it’s—”

“Back up,” Alex said, voice sharp.

Max paused. “What?”

Alex pointed at the photo, eyes wide. “Is that Isabelle Leclerc in your living room?”

Max glanced at the phone like it was obvious. “Yeah.”

“Max,” Alex said slowly. “That’s Charles Leclerc’s sister.”

“Correct.”

“She’s wearing your hoodie.”

Then said, without any trace of shame: “Yeah.”

Alex stared. “Yeah?! That’s all I get?!”

Max squinted. “What do you want? A timeline?”

“Uh, YES?” Alex exclaimed, leaning forward. “That’s Charles’ sister. And she’s sitting on your couch in your hoodie with your kitten like she LIVES THERE.”

Max shrugged. “She does.”

Alex’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s sister?”

Max took a sip of his water. “We’ve been together for a while. Over a year.”

Alex made an unholy sound. “And Charles doesn’t know?!”

“Nope.”

Alex blinked rapidly. “Does anyone know?!”

“GP, Lando, Daniel, Oscar…Lewis, my family...Oh, wait, Nico Rosberg. Now you.”

“Do you want to die?!”

Max gave him a mildly amused look.

Alex dropped his head into his hands. “You’re actually insane.”

Max waited a beat, then tapped his phone. “So. Candle, yes or no?”

Alex groaned. “Yes, Max. It could absolutely be the candle. But also, WHAT IS HAPPENING WITH YOUR LIFE.”

Max tilted his head. “Are you going to tell Charles?”

Alex gave him a look. “Do I look like I want to be collateral damage in that explosion?”

Max nodded approvingly. “Good. So... lavender and cedar — dangerous?”

Alex sighed. “For the kitten, yes. For you? I think you’ve already walked off a cliff.”

Max smirked. “Worth it.”

Alex groaned again. “I need a drink. And maybe a therapist.”

***

Group Chat: 2019 Rookies

(Members: Lando Norris, George Russel and Alex Albon)

Alex: boys. Alex: BOYS. Alex: you’re not going to believe what just happened

George: oh no George: what did you do?

Alex: not meAlex: MAX

George: even worse George: what happened?

Alex: so max came to me for ADVICE Alex: about his KITTEN Alex: because she’s sneezing

George: what???

Alex: wait Alex: it gets worse Alex: he shows me a picture of the kitten Alex: and who’s in the background??

George: WHO?

Alex: ISABELLE. Alex: LECLERC. Alex: on his couch Alex: in his hoodie Alex: drinking out of his red bull mug Alex: LOOKING DOMESTIC AS HELL

George: YOU’RE JOKING

Lando: he’s not

George: EXCUSE ME???? George: SINCE WHEN????

Alex: over. a. YEAR. Alex: he said that with his whole chest like it was normal

George: A YEAR???? George: A YEAR?????

Lando: welcome to hell 😌

George: CHARLES DOESN’T KNOW???

Alex: he does not

George: ARE THEY TRYING TO DIE

Lando: hang on hang on Lando: adding you both

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

Lando Norris has added George Russell and Alex Albon

Lando: new additions have arrived

Daniel: Alex!! Daniel: G-MONEY!!! welcome to the worst-kept secret in f1

Carlos: it is not a secret. it’s a ticking time bomb.

Oscar: Charles will find out and take us all down with him

Lewis: has anyone built a bunker yet?

Alex: I feel like i need to lie down

George: I feel like I need a legal team

Daniel: guys we’re fineDaniel: just don’t say anything to charles and don’t look max in the eye for too long

George: what happens if you look max in the eye???

Oscar: you see your life flash before your eyes

Lando: and also possibly belle in a hoodie making pancakes

Alex: ...she cooks for him????

Carlos: they cook together

George: that’s worse. THEY HAVE A ROUTINE

Lando: they have matching coffee mugs Lando: and the kitten has a name that matches the other cats. it's over

George: i am distressed George: deeply, emotionally distressed

Lewis: You’ll get used to it. eventually

Oscar: No, you won’t. We’re all dying inside… but she’s happy so we keep quiet

Daniel: And max is terrifyingly in love so we don’t poke the bear

George: this is insane

Alex: they are insane

Lando: but also, like… kind of cute right?

***

Max had faced down championship-deciding races, international media frenzies, and Monaco traffic. None of it — none of it — had prepared him for being frog-marched into a luxury jewelry boutique by Emilie Abadie at ten in the morning.

"Stand up straight," Emilie hissed under her breath, fixing the collar of his jacket like he was a misbehaving toddler.

Max glared at her. "I am standing straight."

"You’re standing like you’re about to be arrested," Emilie muttered. "Look less guilty."

"I am guilty," Max grumbled. "Guilty of letting you hijack my life."

Emilie grinned wickedly, grabbing his wrist and hauling him inside.

The boutique was elegant and understated — all cream walls, glass cases, and staff so polished they practically floated across the floor. A woman behind the nearest counter looked up, smiling warmly.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Verstappen. Mademoiselle Abadie. Welcome back."

Max blinked. "Back?"

Emilie shot him a look. "I told you I started scouting months ago. We have an appointment."

"You booked an appointment without asking me?"

"You needed help," Emilie said breezily. "You should be thanking me."

Max grumbled something unflattering under his breath but let her lead him deeper into the store. A private consultation table was already set up — soft lighting, velvet ring trays, glasses of still water, and a discreet little sign that read: “Reserved for Mr. Verstappen.”

Max sat down stiffly. Emilie plopped into the chair next to him like she owned the place.

The saleswoman joined them, setting out a leather-bound book filled with sketches. "You mentioned you were interested in a custom design. Yellow gold, emerald centerpiece, classic but with modern detailing?"

"Exactly," Emilie said crisply, before Max could even open his mouth.

Max raised an eyebrow. "Are you proposing or am I?"

"You're the wallet," Emilie said sweetly. "I’m the brains."

The saleswoman laughed quietly and turned the book toward Max. Beautiful sketches of rings — thick yellow gold bands, stunning emeralds set flush into intricate settings, delicate hidden details like tiny horseshoes, floral engraving, or Celtic knots.

Max stared at them, overwhelmed for a second by how serious it felt.

This wasn’t just a ring.

It was Belle’s future wrapped around her finger.

It was a promise he intended to keep for the rest of his life.

Emilie nudged him gently with her knee under the table. "You’re okay," she said quietly. "You’ve already made the most important decision. This is just picking the outfit for it."

Max exhaled slowly and leaned in, studying the designs.

He pointed to one — simple, stunning, an oval emerald cradled in a four-prong yellow gold setting, surrounded by diamonds, the inside of the band left smooth for an inscription.

"This one," he said roughly. "But I want the stone a little lower. So it doesn’t snag."

The saleswoman smiled approvingly. "Excellent eye, sir."

They finalized the adjustments, confirmed timelines (discreetly expedited, of course), and signed the paperwork.

Max handed over the deposit without blinking.

When it was done, he stood awkwardly in the middle of the boutique, feeling somehow lighter and heavier all at once.

Emilie looped her arm through his, squeezing. "You did good, Verstappen."

"Yeah?" he asked, voice low.

She looked up at him, eyes suddenly bright. "You’re giving her something no one else ever did," Emilie said softly. "You’re choosing her first."

Max swallowed hard. "She deserves it," he said simply.

And he meant it with everything he had.

***

Instagram Story: @/victoriaverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/f1gossipgirl: hold on. HOLD ON. isabelle leclerc... hanging wallpaper... with JOS VERSTAPPEN???

@/casualf1fan: jos verstappen? the jos verstappen? the one who doesn’t like anyone???

@/raceweekgirlie: victoria verstappen posting belle and jos working together calmly has actually sent me into a spiral i was not prepared for today

@/slowpitstop: isabelle organizing the nursery i get isabelle being friends with victoria i get but isabelle and JOS VERSTAPPEN collaborating on a wallpaper project????

@/softdrs the fact that jos looks??? like he’s enjoying himself???? someone explain. fast.

@/piastrisleftshoe: NO BECAUSE THINK ABOUT IT. isabelle has always been quiet, polite, organized. jos: respects competence above all else it’s making sense but also???? why does this feel WEIRDLY IMPORTANT

@/f1socialspy: the verstappens are either adopting isabelle or she’s secretly engaged to max there’s no third option

@/leclercslens: every time i think about isabelle being on a ladder next to jos verstappen holding a roll of wallpaper like it’s normal i lose 3 years off my life

@/f1girliesunite: wait hold on. why is jos verstappen installing wallpaper with isabelle leclerc. what is happening.

@/chaoticf1fan: THE CROSSOVER I DID NOT EXPECT jos verstappen and isabelle leclerc hanging wallpaper like they’re on some home renovation show???

@/leclercbrainrot: belle leclerc being chill with victoria verstappen i get. belle leclerc hanging out with jos verstappen?????? PLS EXPLAIN

@/maxiecatlover33: I’m sorry but if you had told me in 2019 that JOS VERSTAPPEN would be calmly putting up wallpaper with a LECLERC I would have called you insane.

@/dutchgrandprixfan: the way jos looks like he’s genuinely concentrating and belle is just THERE like it’s totally normal?? I HAVE QUESTIONS

@/landochaosnorris: isabelle leclerc and jos verstappen hanging wallpaper together" is my roman empire now

@/chaosformula1: You’re telling me Max Verstappen’s dad and Charles Leclerc’s sister are casually hanging out???? Installing WALLPAPER together??? Am I on drugs or

@gridgirlenergy Not to be dramatic but if you had told me a year ago that Jos Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc would be collaborating on INTERIOR DESIGN I would’ve called you clinically insane. What’s next? Toto Wolff and Christian Horner hugging it out?!

@/maxfosi: the way jos and belle were concentrating on that wallpaper like they were on a two-man pit crew… i have QUESTIONS

@/slowpitstop: someone please explain how belle leclerc is closer to the verstappens than literally any other paddock girlfriend when SHE’S NOT EVEN A PUBLIC GIRLFRIEND (or is she...?)

@/verstappenfiles: there’s just no way she’s not with max right??? you don’t just rope in your extremely grumpy father to do nursery wallpaper with your brother’s "friend" unless it’s SERIOUS

@/mclarenchaos: the verstappen family adopting belle like a lost kitten while the internet loses its mind is my favorite off-track drama right now

@/redbullstan89: petition to get a documentary crew in there IMMEDIATELY because whatever this is, i want to see it unfold in real time

@/f1girlies: petition to make “isabelle leclerc hanging wallpaper with jos verstappen” the new unit of measurement for how confusing the f1 world is

@/pitlaneconfessions: still can’t believe victoria posted that and acted like it was NORMAL like “here’s belle and jos, wallpapering together” no context no explanation iconic behavior honestly

@/charlespills: charles leclerc obliviously posting selfies from golf while his sister is bonding with jos verstappen is soooooo on brand

1K notes · View notes

dailynnt · 4 months ago

Text

TRUTH OR DARE: KISS A FRIEND

✘ Summary: During the game of Truth or Dare, Jungkook kisses you so hard that you can't think of anyone else but him. But it doesn't seem to mean anything to him. To forget about him, you start talking to someone else, but Jungkook won't let anyone take his place.

✘ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N

✘ Age restrictions: 18+

✘ Size: one shot

✘ Tags: friends to lovers, possessive!jungkook, truth or dare, jealousy, heated moments, intense attraction, slowburn but not really, confused feelings, denial but not for long, unspoken desires, spicy tension, one kiss changes everything, unprotected sex.

✘ From author: Hello, guys, everyone. I've written something new for you here 🥹 But I'll start writing "Captive to His Attention" soon. Imagine, I had three short stories in my head at the same time and I had to choose one of them and of course I couldn't help but write about my favourite friends to lover. Let's just admit that this will be my signature theme! 🤭😂 I hope you like it because I really enjoyed writing it 🔥🥰

✘ Dedication: I can't choose one person. That seems like a crime if I did it. I dedicate this work and every next one to my most beloved army in the world: @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @mskookie, @kooko009, @myjungkookthighs, @medstudentlifestyle, @someoneelse0109, @minimoninini, @byeolluvher 💜 I love you girls so much 🥹 Thank you for your endless support and love, so this is my humble gift to you to make you feel good ❤️‍🔥💜

✘ Warning: English is not my native language, so please be lenient with mistakes in the text 🥹

"One minute?" you laughed, your voice breaking into a slight hysteria.

"Just one minute. It's just a prank," Taehyung said.

"Are you nervous?" You heard your friend's voice from the side. You turned to her and met her sly eyes.

"I’m? Nervous? No, why would I be?" You rolled your eyes and took another sip of your cocktail. The ice in the glass clinked against the walls as you set it down on the table. The alcohol made you a little dizzy, but not enough to not realize what you had just gotten yourself into.

Everyone at the table was cheering you and Jungkook on. It was just a game. It's just a stupid game of truth or dare. You kept choosing truth because it wasn't hard and you had nothing to hide, and doing the dare was boring or just lazy.

But Taehyung got tired of you always choosing "truth", so he insisted on choosing "dare". And you got it! ‘Kiss a friend during a minute’. You could have chosen anyone. But when you heard what you had to do, for some reason your eyes reflexively looked at Jungkook, who was already looking at you. It could be attributed to the fact that you have been friends for a long time, because in any difficult situation, you sought support from him first. You and Jungkook have been best friends for... how long? Five years?

This did not go unnoticed by your another friends, and so they insisted that you kiss Jungkook. You both refused, and you said you wouldn't do it, not with Jungkook, not with anyone from the company.

"No, that's not the way it works," Jimin interjected, "Either you kiss Jungkook or you drink 0.5 litres soju in one gulp."

You're left with no choice. It's better to kiss Jungkook than to suffer from a terrible drunkenness and then an even worse hangover in the morning.

"You two are just stalling," your friend, Su Ah, teased, setting down her empty glass. "You’ve been together for so many years that it’s obvious to everyone that you’re either finally kissing or planning a wedding."

You snorted. Jungkook laughed.

"Su Ah, your logic is impeccable," Jungkook replied sarcastically, twirling his half-empty whiskey glass in his fingers. "But unfortunately, Y/N and I haven’t discussed a wedding date yet."

"Not yet?" your friend asked with a sly smile.

"Jungkook, come on!" you snapped at him, trying not to show your embarrassment.

He just huffed, and your friends started talking again, urging you on. It felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, and someone was about to push you down. But... you couldn't just run away, could you?

You looked at Jungkook again. The eyes you knew so well looked at you with a slight challenge. He wasn't going to dodge, he wasn't going to joke. He was just waiting.

"God," you muttered, picked up your glass and took the last sip, as if it could give you courage.

"Well?" Jimin tapped his fingers on the table, holding you with a long look.

"Okay," you sighed, feeling your heart start to beat faster.

You turned to Jungkook, and he smiled slightly. You had joked about this kind of thing hundreds of times. Teased each other, played with flirting that never turned into anything serious. But now... now it all seemed too real.

You walked over to him because you were sitting across from him, and he walked over to you as well. Everyone was watching with interest.

"Close your eyes right away so it won't be so embarrassing," you muttered, trying to smooth things over.

"Yeah, and you're going to kiss me on the forehead? You know that won't work," he chuckled.

"I'll punch you in the forehead right now!" You lifted your chin as if you were really offended, although you realized that your authority could not be saved.

"Don't even think about it," Jungkook leaned closer.

The friends froze, waiting. The room became quiet, too quiet for such a noisy company.

And then you stepped forward and finally touched his lips.

Warmth.

Softness.

A strange heat somewhere in your chest.

You kissed him quickly, almost afraid to stay longer, but before you could pull away, he put his hand on your back, holding you closer.

There were muffled whispers around, someone giggled, someone whistled encouragingly. But it all disappeared the moment he entered his tongue in your mouth. And you let your tongues dance together. You felt the throbbing between your thighs as Jungkook deepened the kiss.

You heard someone counting seconds.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Forty.

His fingers tightened around your waist, and you suddenly realized that you didn't want to pull back. You never thought your best friend was such a great kisser. God, you could have admitted that no one had ever kissed you that well.

Fifty.

When Jungkook tilts his head a little, changing the angle, you're hit with a wave of something hot, dangerous. His tongue touches yours, making you almost moan.

"Hey, are you guys ever going to stop?" Taehyung teased.

Jungkook slowly pulled away, leaving a warm aftertaste on your lips as you both heard the sound of the timer beeping. You stared at each other in silence.

Su Ah slammed her hands on the table.

"Well, congratulations, now either date or continue to pretend that you're just friends."

Jungkook just huffed, looking away from you.

"We're just friends, and it was just a game." You gave him a small smile and went back to the table. You continued playing and drinking at the bar.

Jungkook's words upset you, but you didn't show it. You gave him a fast glance. He was talking to Jimin and acted as if you hadn't just kissed.

For a moment, you remember the sensation of his lips and tongue, and it's like being shoved into an oven. It immediately becomes hot. Friends don't kiss like that! But maybe it's just normal for Jungkook to kiss so passionately and it doesn't matter if you're a friend or his girlfriend.

You grabbed your glass and took a big gulp, as if trying to drown out all the thoughts that were spinning in your head. The alcohol burned your throat, but it didn't help. Your heart was still beating faster than usual, and your lips felt too sensitive after Jungkook's kiss.

You tried to join in with your friends' conversation, laughing at the jokes, but your thoughts kept coming back to the kiss. You could feel Jungkook's eyes on you, even though you never caught him in the act. He acted as if nothing had happened, and that pissed you off the most.

When you got up to go to the bar for a new cocktail, Jungkook did the same. You were at the bar almost simultaneously, and while the bartender took the order, silence hung between you.

"I didn't realize you were such a good kisser," he suddenly said, leaning in slightly. His voice was low and playful, but there was something more sparkling in his eyes.

You turned to him, frowning.

"What does this mean?"

Jungkook smiled, propping his chin up with his hand.

"I was just wondering, you were so nervous at the beginning, and then..." he paused, slowly measuring you with his eyes, which made your skin tingle. "And then you answered with such fervor."

You almost choked on the air.

"What about you?" you challenged back, though your voice barely trembled. "Is it common for you to kiss like that? Or did you just decide to practice with me?"

Jungkook smiled.

"I wanted to know if you knew how to use your tongue. We've been friends for so long, but I don't know anything about your sex life." He explained. You felt your face start to burn.

"You used this situation to just test me?" you pressed your lips together, staring at him with a challenge.

Jungkook hummed, not taking his eyes off you.

"Maybe." He tilted his head slightly, his voice quiet, but every word hit the mark.

You barely stopped yourself from throwing your cocktail in his face.

"You... you're just unbearable!" you hissed, feeling anger begin to boil inside, mixed with something much more dangerous.

Jungkook just smiled as he took his drink.

"But Y/N this was just a game." Jungkook said casually, but you could feel the tension in his tone. He turned around and walked away. You stood there, completely confused and disappointed.

The next morning you woke up with a terrible hangover. Your head hurt so badly that every sound hurt. You were terribly nauseous and dreamed of water.

You barely crawled out of bed and went to the kitchen. You poured yourself a whole glass of water and drank it in one shot. Anyone who hasn't drunk alcohol doesn't know the value of water! You drank another in the glass of water and went back to the bedroom. You lay down feeling a pounding in your head.

You picked up your phone and checked your texts. There were a lot of messages in the group chat. Everyone was discussing your kiss with Jungkook last night.

You frowned as you waded through the dozens of messages in the group chat.

📲 Su Ah: "Well, newlyweds, how did you sleep after such a passionate kiss?😏"

📲 Jimin: "I'm still waiting for the wedding invitation. Or at least an official announcement that you are no longer "just friends 🤭"

📲 Taehyung: "Jungkook, honestly, you looked like you were never to let her go. Were you sure you were in control?"

📲 Su Ah: "And you, Y/N, were keeping up too. A game? Pfft, is this what a game looks like?"

You felt your face flush.

"God..." you groaned, burying your face in the pillow.

It was wildly embarrassing that everyone was talking about it, as if you and Jungkook had actually done something forbidden. But then you noticed Jungkook's response.

📲 Jungkook: "Shut up."

And that was it.

No jokes back. No emoticons. No attempt to brush it off or pretend it wasn't serious.

Something about it made you stare at his message longer than you should have.

Did you even think that those six letters sounded... irritated? Or maybe he was really unhappy that everyone was talking about it?

You bit your lip thoughtfully.

Jungkook was usually the butt of many jokes, and if he thought this was just another prank, he would have responded in the same tone. But he just wrote it down. Briefly. Coldly.

You opened a private chat with him and quickly typed:

📲 You: "Are you alive there?"

No response.

Five minutes have passed. Ten. Twenty.

📲 You: "Kook?"

He's deaf.

📲 You: "Jungkook?"

📲 You: "Are you okay?"

📲 You: "Kook, are you seriously ignoring me?"

He didn't even read the message.

You felt your chest tighten with anxiety. He didn't usually act like this. Even when he was angry or offended, he might joke or brush you off, but not ignore you.

Sighing, you threw back the covers and went to the shower. You washed quickly. You used dry shampoo to avoid washing your hair. You put on light makeup and tied your hair up in a high bun. You quickly pulled on a hoodie and sneakers and left the apartment.

"If he's really sitting there pissed off about something stupid, I'm going to kill him," you muttered as you zipped up your bomber.

It took no more than fifteen minutes to get to his house. You knocked on the door. There was no response.

"Jungkook?"

Silence again. You pressed the bell, waited a few seconds, knocked louder.

"Kook, I'm serious! Open up!"

Again, nothing.

Panicking, you pressed your hand against the door. What if something happened to him? Or is he really so offended that he doesn't even want to see you?

"JUNGKOOK!" you almost screamed, slamming your fist into the door.

And then it finally opened sharply.

There stood a sleepy Jungkook, disheveled, wearing only sweatpants, with a naked torso and squinting eyes.

"What are you yelling about?" he muttered in a hoarse, sleepy voice, rubbing his face.

You froze for a moment. He looked so... relaxed, defenseless, not at all like the self-confident Jungkook who had teased you yesterday.

But then you remembered why you were here in the first place.

"You... You're serious? I texted you a bunch, called you, knocked on your door, thinking you were offended or something, and you're asleep?"

He blinked, still clearly not fully awake.

"Well... yeah."

"Jungkook, it's two in the afternoon!"

He yawned and stretched, showing off his well-defined abs.

"I went to bed at seven in the morning."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Then you opened it again.

"What did you do until seven in the morning? We got home at 2 a.m.!"

"I played."

"You played?!"

"Yes, in ‘Overwatch’, there was an important team outing. I couldn't miss it."

"God..." You rolled your eyes. You rubbed your temples, feeling your head start to hurt again.

He yawned, ran his hand through his hair, and seemed to realize that you were standing in front of him in the hallway.

"Wait, what are you doing here?"

You sighed nervously, looking away.

"Well... I thought you were offended by our friends' jokes... on... well, yesterday..."

Jungkook snorted and shook his head.

"I don't care about their jokes." He answered casually. You felt something unpleasant squeeze your chest.

"Oh... Okay. Then I'll go." You turned around, but he suddenly reached out and grabbed your sleeve lightly.

"Don't be so dramatic." He yawned again. "Come in for now, I'm going to take a quick shower. Then we'll go downstairs to the restaurant and have some hangover soup. It will definitely bring you back to your senses. You obviously haven't eaten yet, because you look just as dead as I do."

You came in and slammed the door behind you. You wanted to argue, but he had already turned around and gone to the bathroom.

You walked into a small hanchib, a traditional Korean restaurant located in a cozy alley near Jungkook's house. The place smelled like broth, roasted sesame seeds, and fresh vegetables. You sat down at a low wooden table by the window.

Jungkook quickly placed your order without even asking you what you wanted - he already knew. Soon, the waiter brought hyeangguk, a traditional hangover soup that was supposed to help you recover from last night. Along with it, kimchi, scrambled eggs with rice, pickled vegetables, and warm ginger tea were placed on the table.

Your stomach was uncomfortably tight, and the tension between you was almost physical. You were sitting across from each other, and although Jungkook looked completely relaxed-slightly disheveled from his shower, wearing a white T-shirt and sweatpants-you could sense that something was... off.

When the food came, he started eating, and you just mechanically stirred the soup with a spoon, licking your lips as if you were going to say something. Then you couldn't stand it any longer.

"It's strange, isn't it?" you began from a distance, not looking up. "We've been friends for years, and then one kiss and everyone decided that there was something between us."

Jungkook didn't even look up, just smiled and put his spoon to his lips.

"Why are you think, that everyone thought like that?"

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to continue:

"It's just... they keep saying it. You've seen their chat room jokes..."

Jungkook put down his spoon, sighed, and finally looked up at you. His eyes were calm, even a little indifferent.

"Why are you worried? They always have stupid jokes about us. And this kiss is just a game."

You felt something inside you clench.

"Just a game," you repeated, looking down at your plate.

Why did those words hurt so much?

"All is right," Jungkook picked up his spoon again and continued eating as if nothing had happened. "We're still friends, and we'll continue to be friends."

He said it so lightly, so carefree, as if your kiss really meant nothing to him. As if you only imagined the warmth, the frantic rhythm of your heart that you felt when his lips touched yours.

You fool! You were the only one who thought it was special. Of course it means nothing to him.

You felt something shrink inside you. These were words you probably needed to hear. But for some reason, they were not what you wanted. You suddenly felt dizzy. Your appetite disappeared completely.

"I see," you whispered, putting down your spoon, "Kook, I'm going to go. I have to go to my sister's house.

You stood up and took out your wallet to pay for the food you hadn't even touched. Jungkook raised his eyebrows, leaning forward slightly.

"Why are you taking out money...? You haven't eaten? he pointed out.

"I'm still sick from the alcohol," you said, half-truthfully.

You took out the money and put it on the table. There was no point in staying here, no point in discussing anything.

Jungkook said something else, but you didn't listen, you just turned around and walked out, feeling a strange warmth spreading in your chest. Was it anger? Or perhaps something much worse.

Two weeks have passed.

You tried to live as if nothing had happened. You worked, went out with friends, even started going to parties more often. You also avoided Jungkook. Very carefully. After you kissed him, you couldn't stop thinking about him. But you had to. Because he didn't care and that kiss meant nothing to him.

He could see that. And even though he was acting as casual as usual, you noticed that his eyes were staying on you longer, that he seemed to want to say something, but didn't.

And then there was that weekend when you all got together again at the club.

You carefully avoided Jungkook, talked to everyone, and gave him only a limited amount of attention. And when you realized that his eyes were following you, you were annoyed. You decided you had to meet someone tonight to shift your focus to someone else.

You met a guy while dancing. His name was Minho. He was cute, funny, and a little bit cocky - just what you needed right now.

You laughed at his jokes, touched his arm, looked him in the eye as if he were the most interesting person in the club. And then you invited him to your table.

Everyone warmly welcomed him. A few of his friends joined your company and you had a great time. Jungkook was the only one who was unhappy with the company that night. He watched all of this without changing his expression. He was angry, but he carefully hid it behind a completely indifferent expression. But Jimin noticed.

"Don't be so angry," he said as they stood outside for a smoke break.

"I'm not angry," Jungkook said, taking a deep breath. Jimin hummed.

"Yeah, and that look you're giving Minho is just friendly interest, right?"

Jungkook didn't answer.

But every day you were getting more and more distant. You stopped writing to him first. And when he did write to you, your answers were short.

📲 Jungkook: "What are you doing?"

📲 You: "Walking with Minho."

📲 Jungkook: "Do you want to go to a café?"

📲 You: "I can't, I'm with Minho, we're eating samgyopsal."

He was angry that you were always with that "new friend" now. He was annoyed that this Minho touched you, made you laugh. What if you start dating? What if he told you that you and Jungkook shouldn't talk to each other?

But when he texted you the next day, you just ignored his message.

You didn't reply for a whole day.

And then in the evening, he saw in your stories that you were going on a trip with Minho. For a few days.

Jungkook's mind was blown. He came to see you. You were surprised to see him at the door.

"What are you doing here?"

"Are you going on a trip? With him?"

You rolled your eyes.

"Yes, I am. What's the big deal?" you asked, irritated.

"Are you serious? What's the big deal?" he walked into the apartment without waiting for an invitation.

"Jungkook, I don't understand what your problem is... This is my personal business," you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

"What's wrong with you, Y/N? You ignore me, you don't answer my texts, and then I see you going to the middle of nowhere with some Minho"

"Some Minho?" you flashed your eyes angrily. "Do you really care? You pushed me away first!"

"What?"

"After that kiss..." you gasped in anger, "I couldn't sleep properly, I couldn't see you properly, I was torn! And you... You just didn't care! And now you come here and protest about Minho?"

"You're not going with him!" Jungkook said firmly. You stared at him.

"What?! Are you out of your mind?! What gives you the right to make decisions for me? You're just my friend, and you've been fine with that until now!" Jungkook was silent. He just looked at you.

"I won't let you go with him." You clenched your fists angrily, feeling everything boiling inside.

"This is too much, Jungkook!" You took a step toward him, your eyes flashing lightning. "This is definitely not your concern! You are not my brother or boyfri…" You stopped talking, realizing that you didn't know what he was to you.

"Just get out!" you pushed him in the chest.

But he didn't leave. He abruptly grabbed your hand and pulled you toward him.

"Jungkook, I said..."

His lips covered yours.

This kiss was not like the one in the club. That wasn’t a game. This was an explosion.

He kissed you greedily, as if he was afraid you would disappear. His arms were tight around your waist, and his heart was pounding so hard you could feel it. You should have pushed him away. But instead, you responded. Your hand clutched his T-shirt, and then your arms reached for his neck and you wrapped them around it.

Jungkook exhaled hotly against your lips before biting into them again, this time even more insistently. It was as if he was testing how far he could go. His fingers squeezed your hips, forcing you to cling to him even harder.

"Jungkook..." you tried to protest, but his tongue penetrated your mouth, and all words dissolved in a hot kiss.

He took a step forward, forcing you to back away until your back was against the wall.

"Tell me to stop," his voice was husky, his breath hot on your skin.

You swallowed. But you didn't say anything.

Jungkook looked at your face, his lips barely touching yours again, but this time the kiss was slow, almost gentle.

His hands, which had just been greedy, were now gentle. He ran his fingers down your cheek, along your jawline, then to your neck.

"Answer me," he leaned closer, his lips sliding down to your ear and then down to the sensitive spot on your neck.

You barely held back a moan as he left a hot, wet trail there.

"Jungkook..." your hands tightened around his shoulders.

"Is that a ‘yes’?" he smiled, his voice dark and husky.

You didn't answer again, but pulled him even closer to you.

His laughter vibrated against your skin before he captured your lips again in a deep, hungry kiss.

Jungkook moaned out loud as your fingers slid over his bare skin beneath his T-shirt. His muscles tensed, and his lips became even more insistent, opening you deeper, more greedily.

He dug his hands into your hips and lifted you up sharply, forcing you to wrap your legs around him. Your back hit the door, but you hardly felt it because his lips were already leaving hot marks on your neck.

"Do you still want me to leave?" his voice merged with your heavy breathing.

You ran your fingers through his dark hair, pulling him closer.

"Shut up."

Jungkook smiled and abruptly picked you up, carrying you to the bedroom.

He threw you onto the bed and hovered over you, holding your wrist above your head. His eyes were dark, almost black, and something dangerous was burning in them.

"You drove me crazy, you know?" he whispered, letting his lips slide down over your collarbone and then down even further. His hands finally got rid of your T-shirt, causing the air to burn your bare skin. Following the T-shirt, he removed your bra in one motion. Your naked breasts made him even more excited. They are perfect. The size is exactly what he likes, they fit perfectly in his palm. Your nipples are excited and he want to taste them.

You felt him smile as his lips left a wet trail on one of your buds. Jungkook lingered on your breast with his lips, tracing the sensitive nipple with his tongue, and then caught it with his lips, gently but challengingly. He knew what he was doing, and he enjoyed your reactions-you shivered, clutched his hair, dug your nails into his skin.

"So sensitive," he murmured, biting one of your breasts reassuringly, while massaging the other with his other hand, "If you could only see how much you turn me on right now..."

"Kook..." you arched your back as his fingers, so strong, so sure, slid over your body, making you tremble with every touch.

"Shhhh," he covered your mouth with his lips, muffling all your words, but not changing what you both already realized.

This is not just a game anymore. This is something else entirely.

His fingers slowly slid down, causing an uncontrollable wave of desire to rise in you. He watched your every reaction, as if he were studying you anew-with the same rapt obsession he'd been trying to hide all these weeks.

"You made me angry," his hot whisper burned your skin, "I couldn't bear the thought of you with anyone else..."

Jungkook leaned in closer, his lips brushing over your ear, making you shiver.

"I wish I could say I don't care, but..." he pressed his body against you, and you felt how true that was.

His hands no longer hesitated. He studied you eagerly, making your breath catch with each new touch.

"Jungkook..." you squeezed his shoulders as if trying to keep control, but he just laughed in a low, raspy voice.

"What, baby? Do you have something to say now?"

Your body flexed under his touch, every movement a response to what he was doing to you.

"Tell me just one thing..." his lips stopped at your neck, leaving a hot trail. "Do you want me to stop?"

His eyes were full of expectation, desire, but he was really waiting for your permission.

You caught his gaze, and in that moment something clicked inside you.

"No. Don't stop."

Jungkook didn't see any point in delaying what he was already going to do. He towered over you and pulled off his shirt. You eagerly studied his body. It was so perfect. Too good to be real.

He threw you a playful smile and reached for your sweatpants. He gently lifted your hips, pulling them down. You were left with only your underwear. You were wearing black ones fishnet thong. Jungkook raised an eyebrow. Too hot underwear to be alone at home. He grabbed the edge and played with it without pulling it down.

"Were you expecting someone with such underwear?"

You could barely swallow, your heart beating furiously in your chest. Jungkook took his time. His fingers played with the thin fabric of your thong, gently running along the edge and then letting go, making the fabric click lightly against your skin. He smiled as he watched you tense up under his touch.

"Maybe I shouldn't take them off," he whispered, leaning closer, licking your lower lip before biting it lightly.

His hand slowly moved down between your legs, deliberately touching you as if to tease you. His fingers slid lightly over the thin fabric, assessing how wet you were already.

"Fuck... You feel that?" his voice was deep, almost hoarse with desire, "You're shaking... I make you so leak?"

You didn't have time to answer, because he abruptly pulled off your underwear, leaving you completely naked in front of him. His gaze darkened even more when he finally saw you without any obstacles.

"There's really no point in hiding now, baby," he slid his hands down your parted thighs, licking his lips, "I want to fuck you. I want fucking you right now."

But suddenly, somewhere in the living room, you heard the sharp sound of an incoming call. Your phone.

Jungkook grimaced as he pulled away from you, his fingers still clutching your skin as if he wasn't going to let go.

"Do you want to take it?" his voice sounded hoarse, slightly irritated.

You glanced at the door to the room and then lay back down.

"It's probably Minho... We were supposed to talk today..." You said awkwardly.

Those words seemed to be the trigger. Before you could even say anything else, Jungkook abruptly pulled your attention back to him. His grip on your hips tightened, and a shadow of dangerous determination appeared in his eyes.

"Minho?" He smiled, but it wasn't a good smile.

His hands went lower, making you inhale sharply, and then, without giving you a chance to answer, he covered your lips with his. The kiss was harder, more dominant, as if he was trying to erase even the memory of the other man.

The phone continued to ring in the living room, but now you didn't care.

Jungkook pulled away for a second, his fingers sliding down your stomach, right down.

"Answer the phone if it's so important," he whispered, touching your pussy. You just squeezed him by the shoulders, realizing that you just couldn't talk now. Jungkook smiled again, victoriously. "I thought so." He pulled away from you, sitting comfortably between your legs. The phone was ringing, but neither of you cared.

Jungkook touched his tongue to the most sensitive point between your legs... Your body twitched as his proficient tongue slid over you, wet and demanding. Jungkook inhaled your scent with pleasure, and then ran his tongue over your most sensitive spot again, leaving hot, sweet torment on your skin.

"You have no idea how much your taste drives me crazy..." he moaned, wrapping his strong hands around your hips so you couldn't move away, "So sweet..."

He dug his tongue into you, gently biting and sucking, making you shudder with every movement. You were breathing heavily, feeling electric waves running through your body. Your back arched as he slipped a finger into you, and then another, moving slowly inside, stretching you out beneath to him.

"That's it... You feel that, baby?" his voice was so low and excited that you could barely contain your moan.

You ran your fingers through his hair, tugging, making him press his lips harder against yours.

"Jungkook... please..."

He lifted his head, licked his lips, looking at you with a smug smile.

"Please what, baby?" his voice was mocking, but his eyes were dark with desire.

You couldn't get a word out because he bent down again, pushing you to the edge with his skillful movements.

Jungkook didn't give you a second to breathe. His hands easily flipped you over onto your stomach, and you barely had time to prop yourself up on your elbows before he grabbed you by the waist, pulling you closer. His hot breath burned your back, and his lips left a wet trail from your shoulder to the base of your spine.

"You don't even know how much I want you right now..." he whispered, and then lightly bit your shoulder, making you flinch.

He ran his hand down your back, sliding it down until it rested on your hips. His fingers squeezed your skin hard and then pulled sharply on you, making you sag even more.

"Now I can fully see how beautiful you are..." his voice sounded so low and hoarse that you felt yourself shivering again.

He touched you again with his tongue, but this time from behind, making you moan louder than you wanted. His hands pulled you even wider, giving you no chance to hide from him.

"Kook..." you moaned, pressing your forehead against the pillow, trying to get a little bit of control.

But he had no intention of stopping. He took you by the hips and forced you to kneel down, leaning on your hands. His lips, tongue, fingers - everything worked together to drive you crazy.

And you had an orgasm. A wave of pleasant sensation went through your body. Your clitoris twitched, signaling that you had enjoyed yourself. Jungkook pulled away from you, but you were lying on your stomach breathing heavily into the pillow.

You were still in the throes of orgasm when you felt Jungkook lie on top of you, his bulge pressing against your naked buttocks. He touched his lips to your ear, biting it lightly. He gave a thrust and you felt how hard he was.

"Do you think I'm done?" his voice sounded dull, but there was a predatory undertone to it.

Before you could answer, you felt him push into you again, not giving you time to breathe.

"Just lie there." He ordered. You felt yourself getting wet again. The mattress under Jungkook's body bent. He got out of bed. He was gone for less than half a minute, but it felt like you had been waiting for him forever. You raised your head to see where he was, but he had already climbed back on the bed.

You wanted to look at him, but Jungkook was behind you. You felt his legs move to the sides of your hips. You felt his cock rest on your buttocks. You squeezed the blanket in anticipation of him filling you with his length.

Jungkook found your hole and put two fingers in it again. He stretched you so that you could accept him. He smeared the moisture on your clit and folds and then grabbed your hips, lifting them slightly. You could feel him pushing the head of his cock against your entrance and then pressing in.

He went slowly, stretching your walls. It hurt. He was too big for you. When Jungkook heard your painful sound, he stopped. He came out, then plunged in again. You could feel him twitching. His hand stroked your thighs, as if to soothe you.

Jungkook went on and hurt you again. But he didn't stop until he was completely inside you. He let out a low moan behind you. You tried to get used to his length. The pain quickly passed, giving way to bliss.

Jungkook froze, breathing heavily. His hot fingers held your hips tightly, and your body barely restrained itself from moving.

"Fuck, you're so tight..." he groaned again as he felt you clench around him.

He ran his palms along your back, stroking gently, letting you get used to him. His warm breath burned your skin, and you felt his lips leave a hot kiss between your shoulder blades.

"Now... can you take me completely?" his voice was low and strained, as if he was struggling to contain himself.

You barely managed to squeeze out a 'yes', and that was enough. Jungkook began to move, slowly at first, as if stretching out the pleasure, and then his thrusts became deeper, more confident. He held you tight, making you feel every inch of his body.

"God, you're perfect..." he groaned, picking up his pace.

You couldn't hold longer. He sensed this and couldn't help but smile smugly. And then he lay down on top of you. He pressed his strong body against yours and you felt how hot you were together. The room became hot. From your sounds, from your passion.

Jungkook suddenly slowed down. His movements became smooth but confident, he was enjoying every second of it, making you press your buttocks against him tighter.

"Damn..." you moaned as he clasped your fingers and linked your hands above your head, completely subduing you.

He smiled as he leaned down to your neck, leaving hot kisses as his hips continued their rhythmic thrusts. His wet lips moved lower until they rested on your shoulders. He adored this moment - when you completely dissolved in his touch.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful when you submit to me..." he groaned, picking up his pace again, making you squeal with pleasure once more.

His hands went down to your thighs, pulling them up like this, giving him the opportunity to enter even deeper. You couldn't stop your moans, your body was on fire with pleasure, and he wasn't going to stop.

"You know this isn't over, right?" he slapped your ass lightly, making your body shudder with mixed emotions - shame, passion, desire.

Jungkook slapped your ass again, harder this time, making your body shudder. You felt him pulling out of you and were about to groan in frustration, but he quickly grabbed you by the waist and flipped you onto your back. His dark, aroused eyes caught your gaze.

"I want to see your face when you cum again..." he whispered hotly, running his tongue over your lips.

Now you were lying on your back, your tangled hair scattered across the pillow, and he was hovering over you, gazing into your face.

His hands confidently spread your legs again. You finally saw him completely naked. His cock was hard and straight. It was big. No wonder you were in pain. The head of his cock was purple and dripping with semen. Jungkook took his length in his hands, and then he entered you in one quick motion. You threw your head back, breathing out his name, and he just smiled smugly.

Jungkook pinned your arms to the bed, not allowing you to move. He set a new pace, slow but deep, making you feel him completely. His eyes were fixed on your face, studying your every reaction, catching every sound that escaped your lips.

"So good..." he whispered, leaning down to kiss you.

His lips were greedy, demanding, as if he wanted to taste you completely. His hands went down to your hips again, to lifting them a little higher, changing the angle.

You felt him go even deeper, making you arch with pleasure.

"Do you feel how well you accept me?" he looked directly into your eyes, and this look made you feel even more overwhelmed.

His hands went under your knees, spreading them wider, allowing him to penetrate even deeper. Every thrust he made drove you into ecstasy, making you feel him with every fiber of your being.

"That's it, baby... Can you feel me? Can you feel me filling you up?" his words drove you even more crazy.

You could only moan, because you had no more strength to speak.

Jungkook leaned in, catching your lips in a deep kiss as his movements became even more rigid.

"I want you to cum with me..." he groaned, squeezing your waist as if he was afraid you might run away.

His hands held you tightly, he moved faster, deeper, continuously igniting a new wave of pleasure in you.

"Cum for me, baby..." he whispered against your lips, speeding up his pace.

Your body trembled, and you couldn't hold back any longer. You squeezed his cock and let out a loud moan, unable to hold back the pleasure in your middle.And that's when he came too, letting himself lose control, leaving traces of his cum on your stomach.

Jungkook and you were breathing heavily. He rested his head on your shoulderbone, still lying on top of you. His hot breath burned your skin. You felt both you and Jungkook sweating.

Jungkook didn't move, just lay on top of you, trying to catch his breath. You could feel his heartbeat - fast, powerful, as frantic as your own.

He slowly lifted his head, his dark eyes gazing into yours, still a little blurred with passion.

"Are you... are you okay?" his voice was hoarse, with a slight smile, but his eyes shone with concern.

You ran your fingers down his back, scratching it a little, and felt him flinch.

"I'm not sure I'll be able to walk after this," you exhaled mockingly.

Jungkook laughed softly and finally raised his head to look you in the eye. His hair was tousled, his lips were swollen, and his gaze... that gaze could drive you crazy.

"Then we'll have to stay in bed," his fingers gently brushed your cheek.

He slowly pulled out of you, making you tremble with hypersensitivity. He insisted that you go and shower and wash off the remnants of his sperm. And you did. You struggled to get up and went to the bathroom. You went to the toilet and then took a quick shower. When you came out, Jungkook was lying on your bed, with the blanket only covering his thighs. He smiled at you and called you to lie down next to him. And when lay down next to you, he pulling you closer to him.

For several minutes you just lay there in silence. Jungkook holds you, his fingers lazily drawing circles on your stomach.

"It was..." he paused, as if searching for words, "It was more than just sex. You realize that, right?"

You didn't know what to say. It was more than that? Yes, it was. But what do you call it?

"Jungkook..." you tried to say something, but he only held you tighter, not letting you escape from this conversation.

"I'm serious," his voice was quiet but firm, "You felt the same way, right?"

You looked away. Your heart was pounding, and you didn't know if you were ready to admit it.

"This changed everything," he continued, leaning down to place a light kiss on your shoulder, "and you know it.”

You tightened your fingers on the sheets.

"But... what if we just..." you trailed off.

"Just what?" his eyes flashed and his jaw tensed.

"If it's just a physical..." you barely finished before he abruptly turned you on your back and grabbed your wrists, forcing you to look him in the eye.

"Do you really think so?" he leaned closer, and his gaze became dangerous.

You couldn't answer. Because you knew the truth. It was more than just a physical connection. It was much deeper than that.

"Shit..." he pressed his lips together as if trying not to say too much, and then he kissed you hard, making you forget all your doubts.

His lips demanded an answer, and you couldn't resist.

"I can't treat you the way I used to," he murmured between kisses, "and I don't want to."

"Okay, then let's try," you asked cautiously. Jungkook smiled. His eyes lit up with something dangerous, and he squinted slyly.

"Let's try?" he repeated, as if savoring the word on his tongue. "Baby, this has long been planned"

You wanted to argue, but Jungkook leaned closer, forcing you to lean back against the pillows.

"You do realize that you'll have to text your new friend and cancel the trip with him," his fingers slid gently over your cheek, "and then you'll have to stop talking to him altogether..."

You blinked in surprise.

"What?"

"You heard me perfectly," Jungkook tilted his head to the side, watching your reaction.

You snorted, raising an eyebrow.

"Why is that?"

"Because I told you to," he shrugged, as if it were obvious.

"Kook..." you rolled your eyes, but before you could add anything, he suddenly grabbed your hips and pulled you sharply against him.

"Don't roll your eyes, baby," his voice lowered and his fingers dug deeper into your skin, "I could see exactly what this Minho wants from you and why he asked you to go with him!"

You sighed.

"Oh, God..."

"Yes, that's him," Jungkook smiled smugly, ignoring your irony, "and he's clearly not averse to taking my place."

"Kook, there's nothing between us!" you tried to pull away, but he only squeezed you tighter in his arms.

"And there won't be," he replied calmly, running his fingers down your back, "because you have me now."

"You're acting like a real owner," you muttered, feeling your heart pounding faster and faster.

"Because I am," Jungkook smiled cheekily, making you blush, "and I own you too."

You sighed, burying your face in his neck.

"You're unbearable."

"And you're insanely sexy when you try to argue with me," he playfully bit your ear, "but don't try because I always win."

Jungkook suddenly flipped you onto your back, hovering over you so that your breath was mixed. His dark eyes glittered with something dangerous, and his lips barely touched yours, making your heart clench in anticipation.

"Let's get one thing straight," his voice was low, with the same confident tone that always made you tremble, "I'm not jealous..."

You could barely contain an ironic smile, not wanting to go along with him so quickly.

"Oh, yeah, sure," your voice sounded just as sarcastic, but it only made him squint predatory.

"...I'm just absolutely against any Minho hanging around my girlfriend."

You felt a warmth spread somewhere in your stomach, but Jungkook didn't even give you time to process his words.

"Your... girlfriend?"

He leaned in closer, his warm breath sliding across your lips, making you forget what you were about to say.

"Oh, do you hear what that sounds like?" his fingers slid lightly along your waist.

You might have said something witty if it weren't for the heat that began to rise in waves from his touch.

"But I haven't heard a formal offer to be your girlfriend!"

His lips stretched into a familiar, cocky smile.

"Do I need to say it? We just had sex, you screamed my name, and now you're lying under my hot, satisfied body. What needs to offered?"

Your face instantly flashed, and you instinctively punched him in the chest, although it didn't do much good-he didn't even flinch.

"Jungkook."

"I'm just stating the facts, baby," his eyes sparkled with dangerous sparks.

"It doesn't work that way!"

"Okay, then I'm officially asking you: are you mine?" He looked confidently directly into your eyes, and you felt your heart rise to your throat.

"What if I say no?"

This answer was a pure challenge, and Jungkook seemed to be waiting for it.

"Oh, then I'll have to convince you..." his hands closed confidently on your hips, forcing you to move a little closer to him.

His eyes flashed with excitement, and his fingers gripped you as if he had no plans to let go.

"Very, very convincing." You smiled slyly, deliberately resting your hands on his chest. "Give me a minute to think..."

"Think fast, because I'm already determined to prove my point in practice." His voice dropped a tone lower, and his fingers began to descend dangerously slowly down your sides.

You sighed, as if thinking, and then spoke slyly.

"What if I told you that Minho is really cute..."

Jungkook's face changed dramatically, as if you had just said something disgusting.

"Cute?"

"And he has such kind eyes..."

"Kind?" He almost spat the word, and his grip on your hips tightened.

"And he's always so polite..."

"Okay, that's enough," his voice became dangerously calm, and his eyes went dark.

Before you could even squeak, you suddenly found yourself under him. Jungkook climbed on top of you, sitting comfortably between your legs. You felt his cock pressing against your pussy.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm taking away your thoughts of all the other men," his lips moved to your neck, leaving hot, possessive kisses.

"Oh, God..."

"Yeah, and this time you won't be able to think about that what's-his-name anymore..."

"Minho?"

His fingers digging into your thighs.

"Don't say that name in front of me!"

His lips burned your skin, and his breathing became even more labored. Jungkook seemed to be throwing lightning bolts, his hands gripping your hips with a clear claim of ownership.

"I'll make you forget his name," his voice was low, husky, full of jealousy and desire.

He leaned down, sliding his lips down, leaving hot traces of his kisses on you. His fingers traced a line along your stomach, making you shudder with anticipation.

"Say my name," he pressed his lips to the sensitive spot on your neck, and you couldn't help but moan.

"Jungkook..."

"Again." His movements became more determined, more demanding, and you could only obey.

"Jungkook!" Your body arched under him, and he exhaled in satisfaction, finally convinced that there was only one person in your head.

"That's it, baby," he raised his head and looked directly into your eyes, "Now be a good girl and never make me jealous again.

His lips found yours again, erasing all doubts, all thoughts, everything but him.

#bts jungkook #bts #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x f!reader #jungkook smut #frends to lover #jungkook imagine #bts fanfction #jk x you #jk x reader

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tangerineastronaut · 5 months ago

Note

can you do how they would be when your pregnant ot8

ATEEZ during your pregnancy ❤︎ ot8

Pairing: ot8 headcanons Genre: fluff, mentions of smut Requested: Yes w.c. 2.5k Warnings: pregnancy discussion, talk, sexual bits (not a whole lot of smut I promise) A/N: This took a surprisingly long amount of time I'm sorry!! I'm not sure if you meant ateez or not, I assumed so since that's what I've been posting recently. If not please send me an ask and I will do this for another group! Requests: Open (link below)

Requests | WIPs Masterlists: BTS | ATEEZ | GOT7 | Stray Kids

Taglist: @baby-stay92 @cozypaint If you'd like to be added to my taglist, please DM me or click here.

🔞Content Below the Break🔞

Hongjoong

The absolute worst (best)

Scolds you for "doing too much" aka walking up the stairs or picking up a gallon of milk.

Buys you the most expensive brand of prenatal vitamins despite your doctor insisting the cheap ones are fine

Checks on you via text every hour when he's not with you

^ and when he is with you

Is lowkey afraid of failure as a father, reads parenting articles

Sends you decaf coffee at work

Wants to feel your belly but won't unless you invite him to

Teary eyed when he feels the baby kick for the first time

Sampled the heartbeat at the ultrasound visit to use in a song

Writes letters to you and the baby and keeps them in a memory book for you to read later (but you don't know this)

Nursery is fully decked out and the baby already has a full wardrobe

Your crying makes him panic, he hates seeing you cry and will frantically try to soothe you every time

Is grossed out by your cravings but will get them for you anyway—why do you have to crave vegetables?

Sex is soft and lazy in the best way

Side sex (think sunday morning sex except any day) >>>

Like imagine his chest against your back, his cheek against yours, one of his hands keeping your leg up so he has room to fuck you, asking if it feels good and if you're comfortable, except he's kind of whining and breathless ~

No pregnancy kink but thinks you're breathtaking, as always

^ even when you haven't showered, your legs are hairy, etc. He thinks you're a work of art

Plays music for you and the baby, asks what he/she responds to and makes note of it

Overprotective, does not like it when people touch you in general, let alone when you're pregnant

Visibly dies inside every time someone's hand goes to your belly without asking you first—would scold people if you'd let him

Posts photos of you each month documenting your pregnancy and leaving a words of appreciation for you

Keeps a copy of the ultrasound photo with him

May not have his hands on you 24/7, but he makes sure you know you're loved as well as the baby

Seonghwa

So freaking soft for you both

Loves babies anyway but your baby??

Him leaning against the headboard so you can lean against him, he'll curl his arms around you and rub your belly while you talk

Talks to the baby, even when you're asleep

"I can feel you kicking in there. Let's let mommy sleep, hm? She gets cranky at daddy when she's tired."

Watches parenting videos

Loves showering with you since you can't take baths

When you joke that there's not much room anymore he'll say he knows that and pulls you closer

Shaves your legs for you when it gets too difficult, even if you're too shy to ask him

Buys you gifts every time he gets something for the baby

"The mom group says it's important for me to make you feel as loved and wanted as the baby."

^ has joined mom groups on social media, because "dad groups are just full of men complaining"

Calls him/her 'the little one'

"How are you? How was the little one today?"

Isn't overprotective but has moments when he hovers

You don't mind

Sex is always slow and full of giggles and him reassuring you when you're out of breath

He likes you on your back so he can kiss you and keep pressure off of you, arms on either side of you to support his weight

Likes taking naps with you even though you're always napping due to exhaustion

^ rarely actually sleeps, just wants to be near you and the baby

Knows your cravings by heart

"Pickle juice and french fries? That's a new one."

His nesting is as bad as yours if not worse; you both frantically clean the house months before the baby arrives

Loves when you send him selfies/belly pics

Isn't fazed by your emotions, helps you work through them and validates you

"Being pregnant doesn't mean you aren't allowed to have feelings, pretty girl. I'm here."

Yunho

Probably the most excited externally

Loves rubbing your belly and watching the baby kick his hand

Unironically purchased the "I'm proof daddy doesn't play video games all the time" onesie

Brings you ice cream even if you don't ask for it

"I'm telepathically linked with our baby, he/she said they want ice cream. I don't make the rules, y/n."

p r e g n a n c y k i n k

"Look at you, so fucking pretty and full."

Sex is unbelievably gentle despite his filthy words

Won't put you on your back, likes to have you in his lap so he can do all the work

Likes taking you out and showing you off, even when you feel like a mess

Posts pictures of you constantly to the point where people joke he's running a y/n maternity account

Foot rubs

Sympathy pains

"Our heartburn is bad today. I want a cinnamon roll. With sprinkles."

Teases you relentlessly

"I'll race you to the kitchen—oh yeah."

Handsy af but you don't mind

Walks up behind you to hold your belly

Sits up at night to rub it when the baby won't settle

He/she loves Yunho's voice and they begin kicking when he speaks

^ he uses this to his advantage

"Mommy's calling herself ugly again, I'm gonna need some backup from my internal ally."

Already 2 v 1 and the thing isn't even here yet

His google search history is worse than yours

^ "can pregnant women eat carrots"

"how long does pregnancy really last"

"how to make pregnant woman stop crying"

"why is my pregnant girlfriend crying"

"why am I crying"

"how to stop crying when your pregnant girlfriend cries"

Loves when people ooh and awe over you; beams and grins like an idiot bc you're his and he put the baby in you.

Yeosang

Seems calm

Is not calm

Is just as protective/concerned as Hongjoong but is so quiet about it you don't even notice

You haven't lifted a grocery bag since he found out about your pregnancy

Has the dates of your appointments memorized

No one touches the belly. He doesn't even say anything to anyone. They just don't.

Does little things to make sure you're extra comfortable, bought you a pregnancy pillow

Whispers to your belly

^ "I'm afraid my voice will scare the baby. I'll just whisper."

Pouts if the baby won't kick for him

You: "Please, Yeosang, for the millionth time fetuses cannot choose favorites! Our baby loves you, I promise!"

King of pregnancy cravings

2 a.m. runs to the convenience store because you want some strawberry milk

Forehead kisses with a hand on your belly >>>

Will literally get on his knees for a chat with him/her

Like imagine looking down and seeing this man smiling up at you, both hands on your tummy with so much love in his eyes I just—

His calm facade dissolves when you cry

It physically hurts him to see you break down and he will do all he can to help you

Talks about you nonstop and your symptoms, experiences, etc literally to anyone with ears

Signs you both up for a parenting class

Cannot believe how horny you are, but is happy to help

^ a little afraid of you tbh but still very much in love

Like Hongjoong, prefers side sex so he can still be close to you

Also loves foreplay/eating you out even more now because of how sensitive you are

Ultrasound visits/pics make him choked up though he tries to hide it

His brain has not processed the fact that his baby is literally inside of you

It isn't going to fully sink in until there's a baby in his arms

^ is never going to put him/her down

San

Proud Dad™

Is excited, but calm

Similar to Yeosang but not as intense

^ still protective, but doesn't mind when people touch your belly as long as they ask first

Buys two copies of baby books for you both to read at the same time

Posts pictures of your pregnancy journey with quotes or long paragraphs about how beautiful you are

lowkey pregnancy kink?

Cautious

Armchair sex/you in his lap - super slow and soft

Loves showering with you after to hold you and massage your back/shoulders

Doesn't necessarily treat you like you'll break but is still very gentle with you

Hugs are softer, he doesn't squeeze as tight, likes to hug you from behind and look over you to see what you're doing

Touches your belly in a reassuring way, likes to brush his hand against it and feel the baby's reaction

Does it in public probably the most of the members, though it's not really intentional

His hands used to go to your waist and now they go to your bump ~

Doesn't talk to the baby as much as he sings to him/her

Is way too excited to take maternity photos

Gets caught staring at you by literally everyone

Does not care

Thinks you hung the stars

Loooooves being snuggled in bed with you with your bump between you, rubbing your belly and whispering as though the baby is sleeping

Is very expressive about his fears/doubts and wants you to be as well

Blushes when people call him daddy

Blushes harder when you call him daddy

Pretty calm when it comes to your emotions, will just go with the flow and give you what you need, whether that's space, affection, or food

secretly hopes you want another one

Mingi

When I tell you this man is terrified

Does not think he can care for a baby despite your reassurance

Asks all the questions

"I mean, how do we know when it's done? You know, like, cooked all the way?"

Oddly protective despite his fears

Does not like anyone touching your belly

Any time someone comments on your size/roundness/etc he's ready to throw hands, does not care if it's the ajumma two doors down from you

You: "Mingi for the love of god, I have told you, you cannot threaten people."

"She threatened you first!"

You: "She just said I look ready to pop??"

Horny af and has a pregnancy kink but will not initiate sex

You have to beg, and even then it's like ~

"No I mean just stand there, and I'll hold you and put it in. Yeah don't move at all."

Will still eat you out daily

Treats you like a glass doll

Belly kisses >>>>>

Buys baby books, gets one page in and declares this is too much to remember and you both should get a refund

^ shrugs at your look of horror "obviously I meant a refund for the books..."

Raps??? at your belly? Like nursery rhyme raps????

Also talks. A lot. Not cooing or baby talk

"Today at practice I slipped and it sucked, kinda hurt my knee. I'm still a good dancer, definitely better than Yunho. I'll show you. But I mean like after you can walk and stuff, or maybe you'll dance before you can walk and we can win money or something. Do they have baby dance competitions?"

Doesn't post the pictures he takes of you and your belly, looks at them when he misses you and won't let anyone else see them

Unironically refers to himself as your baby daddy and changes his contact in your phone [proudly]

When you cry, he cries, so please don't cry

Asks if he can attend his own child's birth

^ is excited when you say "...yes, Mingi. You can attend the birth of our child."

Wooyoung

Knows all there is to know about babies??

Is not concerned at all

Reassures you constantly

You ask him questions

Will lay on your thighs and absentmindedly rub your belly while watching tv or scrolling on his phone

Actually, will rub your belly anywhere, and usually does it without realizing it

Refers to you as mama and himself as dada even out of context

"Do you want a drink, mama?"

Is completely unfazed by your weird cravings and will get them for you as long as it's not harmful

"No, y/n, you cannot have sushi with your oreos. Mercury levels..."

Not overprotective in the slightest

Your biggest advocate

The only member who would fuck you properly while pregnant, as he knows it's safe within reason

Does not have a pregnancy kink, but loves how sensitive you are, the changes to your body, etc and thinks you're a goddess

Loves going shopping with you

Will absolutely argue with you over nursery themes

Finds you adorable when you're emotional, but will still try to calm you down and comfort you

Loves talking about you nonstop

May not praise you to your face as much as the others but tells everyone else he's so incredibly lucky to have you as the mother of his child

He was so clingy before

It's worse

His camera roll is full of selfies with him and your bump

Imagine woo making bunny ears over your belly (and telling your unborn child to say cheese)

Has full on conversations with him/her

Baby talks and coos and informs them they have the best parents ever

Jongho

Probably the most genuinely calm member when it comes to your pregnancy

Still very excited

Does not know as much as wooyoung but is fairly confident, not terrified or anxious like some of the others

Touches your belly from day 1, even without a bump

Sings and hums to it

The baby LOVES his voice and always kicks when he's near

He finds this adorable and loves talking to him/her while touching your stomach

Massages >>>>

Your pregnancy aches are afraid of him

Is a little shaken by your emotions but handles them well

Not too overprotective but really hates it when people touch you

Won't say anything though unless you're uncomfy

Sex?

Dear god

2ho breeding/pregnancy kink is my headcanon and I am sticking with it

Do not make eye contact for more than a few seconds

Is unbelievably horny for you

Doggy style with pillows underneath you >>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Is extra gentle despite how badly he wants you

Takes care of you first also ^ he knows it helps you relax so that's always his end goal

Loves the way you look while pregnant

Thinks you're beautiful anyway but something about the fact that you're literally creating a brand new human being

When you wear his t-shirts and nothing else because your clothes don't fit anymore it makes him melt ~

^ he complains for the fun of it but would probably cry if you stopped

Brings you snacks/drinks/whatever without you having to ask

Is willing to try your cravings with you as long as it's nothing vile (frito chips + peanut butter)

Wants to do every social media pregnancy trend with you

*buys your unborn child soccer cleats*

Doesn't post photos of you often but when he does, they're tearjerkers

Wants more kids but knows how difficult pregnancy/motherhood is so ultimately it's up to you

He's the cutest - kissing your temple while snuggling on the couch and rubbing your belly

"Our baby bear"

1K notes · View notes

motorsportbarbie13 · 6 months ago

Text

Aftermath - Chapter 1

When Lando leaves you heartbroken after you get tired of trying to make something into nothing for far too long, Max steps in to help you pick up the pieces.

Warnings: Lando is a dick in this. Small mention of not eating/losing weight but it's not discussed at length. angst. all. the. angst. Pairing: Max Verstappen x LeClercSister!Reader Word Count: 4.4k

(Also big giant huge thank you to @nitaekook for beta reading/editing/hyping this up and convincing me it was ready to be posted! ❤️❤️)

Master List

Falling out of love is exhausting. The way the silent negligence slowly chips away at the glossy veneer of gold plated faux happiness was soul crushingly agonizing. It wasn’t ever loud or raw or angry. No. It never spared you any emotion other than cool indifference. You could never quite figure out why the boy who had once warmed your entire life with his sunshine now refused to even glance your way.

It started slowly. So slowly that it took you a while to even realize what was happening. The way you lingered a little longer at the end of the day in the art studio. The way you stopped in front of the window of a real estate office, staring longingly at the listings of the pretty apartments that weren’t yours. The way you slowly slipped out of his life in a way that neither of you saw coming.

Everything changed the day you ran into your brother in a part of town neither of you usually frequent. Neither of you were supposed to be there that day, all the way across town from where you belonged.

After a third day in a row of being left on read and not even getting a phone call from Lando, despite him spending all night on Max Fewtrell’s stream playing Tarkov, you had gotten sick of waiting around the apartment. You were tired of waiting for just the littles crumb of attention from him, which he only seemed to give to you the moment you strayed a bit too far from him. You finally worked up the courage to leave your phone at home and go out without it, knowing that if he called and you didn’t answer you’d probably go another three days without so much as a text, just because he could. At this point though, you weren’t sure you even cared.

You changed into your favorite workout set and took a selfie before posting it to your stories (so he knew what you were doing. Lando loved watching your stories to make sure you were where you told him you were) and walked out the door.

The silence washed over you as you began your run, a sense of freedom coupled with a bit of anxiety settling in your bones as you turned down the street where your apartment was. You ran, leaving all of the stress of your three year relationship behind, without really knowing where you were going or what you would do when you were done. Part of you hoped Lando called you while you were out so he knew that you were flexing your wings a bit without him but you knew that would come with consequences. He’d ignore you, a punishment that he knew you hated but it was almost worth it. The potential punishment from him was almost worth knowing that you’d scare him into action.

Mile after mile, your sneakers hit the pavement at a steady pace, the rhythmic sound soothing your anxiety like a weighted blanket. Around you, the city buzzed with cars and people rushing around during the summer busy season. Expensive cars zipped by and tourists wandered down the sidewalks, sometimes making passing them difficult but you were used to the crowds of Monaco. You had grown up running these streets, first with your brother Charles and twin Arthur, trying to keep up with them as they trained for their respective racing seasons, but as you got older and Charles moved into the higher Formula series, your runs with him became fewer and far between until it was a rare occasion that you got the chance to train with him. Arthur was still regularly around, but you didn’t like training with him as much and he tended to be a little too chatty while working out where you preferred the silence of your thoughts.

You see your brother exit the apartment building ahead of you before he notices you heading towards him. His dark waves that match yours teased by the Mediterranean breeze as he turns around to speak to the man who follows him out of the building. Charles is everything a big brother should be and it kills you how much you have to lie to him about your relationship with Lando.

You slow down to a light jog as you approach, waiting patiently for Charles to notice you. When he does though, his entire face lights up. “Little Dove! What are you doing on this side of town?”

Something deep in your chest twists at the nickname Charles has called you your entire life. There’s something nostalgic about it, the way he calls you his little dove, the LeClerc Princess in a house full of boys, fluttering around like a little bird preening under the attention of the birds of prey.

He reaches for you, pulling you into a tight hug. You’ve been too busy lately, trying desperately to keep the weight of your failing relationship out of the harsh light of the public eye so you haven’t seen your brother as much as you’d like.

Falling out of love is exhausting.

Charles has noticed, of course. You’ve stopped coming to races like you used to when you were freshly with Lando or even when he was new in Formula One. You used to love races. The people, the sounds of the engines roaring around the track, seeing your brother do what he loves at the pinnacle of his sport. You used to drink it all in, obsessed with anything and everything racing. But then the world had tarnished when Lando started choosing racing over you. It was subtle at first, the way he would spend an extra night in Woking to spend time on the sim instead of coming home to your shared apartment. He’d go on trips with Max F, Keegan, and Ed but an invite was never extended to you. Even when he was home, he was always half there. Expecting you to wait around for when he was finally finished streaming. ‘But baby, it’s all work! I’m training for the season. And Max needs my help with the stream! The trips are for Quadrant!’ Excuses were always at the ready with Lando. So much so that you had stopped asking to be a priority.

When he was with you though it was different. When he finally got around to paying attention to you, he was the doting, loving Lando you had fallen for. He’d bring you breakfast in bed, cuddle with you late at night watching movies, surprising you with a last minute trip to somewhere tropical. Although, if you were being honest with yourself, these little surges of attention always came after a fight or an extended period of time that he had spent away from you. Almost like he was trying to sooth the guilt within himself instead of spending time with you.

Charles lets you out of his arms, looking down at you with sadness and hesitation in his gaze.

“I just needed to go for a run.” You say, avoiding the pointed look that Charles fixes on you. You didn’t really want to delve into the real reason for needing to get out of your own head with your brother’s real estate agent standing right next to him. It was only then when you realized just how far you’d come, the tall residential buildings unfamiliar at first glance. You hadn’t been on this side of town in ages but the complex that Charles had just come out of was instantly recognizable.

Your eyes flick over to the man standing beside Charles. You knew him well, a family friend who had helped Charles and Alex find their current apartment as well as the villa they had bought in Italy last year. “I could ask you the same thing. Are you and Alex planning on moving?”

“Not exactly.” Charles grins, momentarily willing to move on from the fact that you looked like you were ten seconds away from crying.

You tilt your head at him, waiting for an explanation.

“Units in this building rarely ever come on the market and Nick is trying to convince me it would be a good investment.”

“We’re lucky we even managed to get a showing.” Nick interjects as he runs a hand through his hair. “This building is beyond exclusive.”

You laugh, light and airy, while rolling your eyes. “Charles? The Prince of Monaco? Lucky to get a showing?” Mock shock colors your voice and for a flicker of a second, you feel normal again. “Nicholas, I’m surprised at you. Cha could bat those eyelashes of his at anyone in town and get whatever he asked for and you know it.”

Charles blushes but both of them know it’s true. Charles could ask for anything in this city and get it handed to him on a silver platter. More so now, after winning Monaco last year, finally breaking his home race curse.

He turns towards his friend. “Let them know I’m interested in making an offer, oui?”

Nick’s eyes light up and you can practically see the dollar signs spinning around in his head, no doubt trying to calculate the amount of commission he’d potentially earn from even the smallest unit in the building. “I’ll head back to the office and get the offer drawn up right now. Want to go in at asking?”

Charles nods, “That’s fine. I want to make sure I don’t miss out on this unit.” He eyes you then, suddenly coming up with an idea that might just solve a problem he’s been dealing with for the last three years. “Have you had lunch yet?”

Glancing at your watch, you’re surprised to see that nearly two hours has passed since you’d left the house. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice wonders just how annoyed Lando is going to be that you left your phone at home.

You ignore it.

“No, I didn’t even realize how late it was. I guess I went a little time blind.” You sigh, not wanting to admit that you had skipped both breakfast and lunch the last few days. Your appetite while Lando was gone was next to nonexistent, the anxiety of being in the apartment without him too much for your body to handle.

“Let’s go get some food then.” Charles slips his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a sibling lunch date, just the two of us.

Something warm blooms in your chest at his words. It had been a while since you’d seen your brother, since you’d seen any members of your family really. Between your work in the studio and Lando, you didn’t have much spare time on your hands.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.” You murmur, allowing yourself to get swept away by your big brother.

“So tell me about work.” Charles implores as he leans forward on the white linen table cloth. “Don’t you have a new show coming up?”

You nod, taking a sip of water as your eyes dart over the menu of the small Italian restaurant Charles had chosen. At first you had protested, insisting that the white linen and heavy sterling silver flatware were much too fancy for you and your sweaty workout clothes but Charles had insisted. ‘Please. You are in Monaco, everyone here is rich enough to wear their grungy clothes without a care in the world.’ Had been his plea but you knew he had ulterior motives: the pasta at this little eatery was divine. So of course you had given in.

“I do. I’m still working on getting the theming right though, I haven’t been feeling very inspired lately. But the one in two weeks is nearly finished being installed.” Your thoughts flicker to your studio across town, where half a dozen partly completed paintings sit in various states of disarray almost mocking you whenever you walk in the door.

Like Charles, you were an artist at heart. Except where Charles chose music, you had always been drawn to paint. The thrill of prepping a new canvas, of planning out the idea and initial sketches, to finally, finally getting to put that first bit of color on an otherwise blank canvas. You never felt more at home than when you were seated in front of a canvas, alone in your studio.

Charles sees the opening he’s been waiting for, leaping on the opportunity like a stowaway in a boxcar train. “I’ve noticed you’ve been…” He pauses, knowing he has to choose his words carefully. “Not yourself lately and now it’s effecting your art? Little Dove, I am worried about you.”

Your heart aches at the sound of desperation in your brothers words. You hadn’t realized how out of control you’d allowed yourself to be. How desperate you’d become for just a shred of attention from Lando.

“I’m fine, Cha.” The lie slips off your tongue easier than you’d like.

Charles narrow his eyes because while Arthur may be your twin, Charles? Charles has always been your safe place. You had been the one who had kept him afloat after your father passed. Whenever there were fights over the cost of his’ racing career, you had always been his biggest advocate. If there was one person you trusted more in this world than Arthur, it was Charles.

And because Charles knows you like the back of his hand, he knows that you’re lying.

“He’s not good for you.” He hates saying the words, knowing that Lando is also a coworker and at one time, a friend. He may race for McLaren but Charles still had to spend a significant amount of time with him, especially over the last three years that you two had dated. But lately, something had changed in Lando. He wasn’t the same guy he had raced with in 2019. He was darker somehow, more withdrawn his usual crowd but up until now he had just chalked that up to Lando grown up and maturing.

“Don’t say that, Charles.” You whisper, voice pleading and thick. Your eyes drop to the plate of roasted chicken in front of you while the napkin twists in your fingers.

“If you want that apartment I just bought, it’s yours.” Your brother’s voice is desperate. “You can pay me rent if you want, I don’t care if you do but that place is yours if you want it.” The offer crashes over you like a giant swell of water breaking over your body.

It takes a moment for you to process what Charles just offered you. The apartment he just bought? In one of the most exclusive buildings in the city? He wants you to take it? You’re utterly stunned because while Charles has always been more than generous monetarily with his family, gifting you the multi million dollar apartment was bordering on crazy.

“Charles, I…” You stammer, utterly at a loss for words.

Charles shakes his head, “Don’t give me an answer now. Think about it, it’s going to take a few months to close the deal but, please my dove. Please think about it.”

Two Weeks Later

No matter how many shows your work was featured in, opening night always had you on edge. Your art was deeply personal to you and while you loved sharing it with the world, watching that first group of outsiders that had access to your work see it was always enough to fray the delicate edges of your nerves.

Charles hadn’t brought up his proposition any more after you had left the restaurant that day two weeks ago. He’d hopped on a jet the next day, needing to fly to a race half way across the world. Lando had left that next day too without barely more than a good-bye. He had seen your story on Instagram and had sent you several text messages while you had been with Charles, but beyond that he never even mentioned it. The quiet dismissal was even more painful than any anger he could have directed at you.

You hadn’t been invited to the race by Lando either, not that you would have been able to go. The opening for the gallery where your art was being featured was your priority so you hadn’t even bothered asking Lando if he wanted you there. You had already known the answer anyway.

When you left the apartment that evening, Lando was still playing Tarkov with Max on his stream. He said he still a while until the show started, why would he want to go with you to get there so early just to stand around and stare at a bunch of paintings? He swore up and down that he’d be there in an hour, just after he finished the next raid with Max and then kissed you absentmindedly on the cheek as you said good-bye.

He hadn’t missed a single shot on the screen.

The gallery is tucked away on a quiet street a few blocks from your apartment so instead of calling an Uber or asking Charles to pick you up, you decided to walk the short distance. The warm Monaco breeze teased at your hair as you slowly wandered down the sidewalk towards your destination alone.

The lights of the building spill out of windows in the setting Mediterranean sun, casting a warm light out onto the sidewalks. You’d shown your work in this gallery before and loved the owner, who had been one of your first supporters many years ago when your career was just getting started. The way the gallery was set up was ideal for the way your paintings demanded to be displayed and you knew that no matter what, the designers who were in charge of hanging your work would do it all justice.

In the large picture window out front hangs two of your favorite paintings that you’ve painted in a long time. You took a lot of inspiration from the impressionists: Monet, Degas, Renoir and these two were no exception. Lately though, your work had taken a bit of a dark turn with even the gallery owner making a comment on how moody and different your paintings had been lately. You were proud of them though, the bright slashes of color felt like your feelings laid bare on the stretched white canvas were a cathartic release of the stress and anxiety of your home life.

There are a few people milling about inside, mostly employees but a genuine smile, the first to flit across your face all day, spreads slowly when you spot your brothers walking down the sidewalk. Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo all saunter towards you but you’re surprised at the fourth figure following your three siblings.

“Little Dove.” Charles calls when he’s within shouting distance and you walk towards the four men, bright smile fixed on your face. He folds you up into his arms, kissing your cheeks, before passing you over first to Arthur who gives you the same greeting before once again passing you over to Lorenzo.

The familiar chatter with your brothers is a soothing balm to the opening night jitters that are fluttering around in your chest but it’s the figure who stands quietly off to the side that intrigues you the most.

“Max, it’s so good to see you.” Stepping out of Lorenzo’s hold you walk straight into the Dutchman’s waiting arms. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

“And miss the newest works of Monaco’s best artist?” His voice drips with incredulous teasing. “I could never.”

You know he’s teasing but the words carve themselves deep into your skin, the ache sitting in your chest, all bright and painful. Here you were, in another man’s arms while he praised your work while your boyfriend couldn’t have even bothered to leave the house at the same time as you.

Reluctantly, Max lets you step out of his arms and not for the first time that night, he takes your figure in. He swears you're thinner than you were last time, a thick cloud of anxiety and something darker hanging over your usually bright demeanor. It physically aches looking at you, how much you’ve changed in the last three years. Max has known you for as long as he’s known Charles and Arthur. When you were younger, you spent most of your time toddling along after your big brother so when he befriended the two brothers from Monaco, you had kind of been part of the package deal.

He has to resist the urge to rub at the ache in his chest, knowing that you’re with Lando and looking this miserable. You put on a good face though and Max knows that if he hadn’t been so familiar with every dip and plane of your face, he probably wouldn’t have noticed.

“Thank you for coming.” You murmur, allowing your eyes to linger on Max a beat longer than your brothers.

Lorenzo, ever the eldest brother, leads the group into the gallery, Max behind you and Arthur in front of you. You can feel the heat of his body radiating when he reaches around your shoulder to hold the door open for you from behind and turn your face upwards to give him a heart stopping smile. “Thank you.”

You excuse yourself to go find Nessa, the gallery’s owner, leaving your brothers and Max to their own devices while you make sure everything is set for the show.

Max plucks a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray before he turns to Charles. “Want to take bets on if Lando shows?” He grumbles, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Charles does it for him though, muttering something that sounds a lot like ‘proper idiot’ under his breath.

Max nods and turns his attention to the paintings hanging on the wall. You’re not the only artist being featured tonight but your work is the most striking in the room and Max finds himself drawn to a large piece depicting a meadow tucked into a valley with a set of mountains in the background. The sky was what caught Max’s attention though. It was a riot of grays, blues, and shades of the deepest black. The storm was close to boiling over, gathering strength in the background as the foreground of the painting remained seemingly bathed in a golden sunlight.

The emotion that you had poured into this canvas practically shimmered off the surface and Max found himself with the most overwhelming desire to touch it.

“This is my favorite of all the pieces I did for tonight.” You murmur as you come to stand beside Max, who tries to hide the involuntary shiver that travels over his skin at the sound of your voice.

Max slides his eyes over to you without turning his head, almost as if he’s afraid that he’ll scare you away if he moves too fast. “It’s different from your other work.” He observes and your heart clenches.

Max’s thoughts flicker to the piece he purchased from you four years ago when he moved into his penthouse apartment. It was a piece as big as the one in front of him now, but the color scheme was markedly different. Where the piece in front of him was moody and stormy, the piece that hung in his living room was light and airy. He had seen a similar painting of the French countryside in your studio and had asked you to paint a similar but the Dutch tulip fields of his home country.

Normally, you didn’t take commissions. You were much too attached to your craft and the control you craved to give up such an important piece of your creative process. It was a policy that was a therapist’s dream.

You had broken your own rule for Max though. You had been powerless against those glacial blue eyes of his and without a second thought you had agreed to do as Max asked.

“Do you not like it?” You ask, surprising yourself with how much you care about what Max thinks.

He shakes his head before taking a sip of his champagne. He hadn’t been this close to you for this long in so long, he was almost afraid to move. “No, Dovie. That’s not what I was saying at all. I was just thinking of the one in my house and how different they are.”

You nod, eyes darting back up to your painting as you think of the tulip fields that was secretly your favorite piece of art you’d ever made. “I was a different person when I painted yours.” You say simply.

“And how is the person you are now?” Max’s voice is low as he leans into your bare shoulder just a fraction more than might be appropriate for someone who knows you have a boyfriend.

Chest tightening, the weight of having a boyfriend who is currently running forty five minutes late after promising to be there for you settles on your shoulders so heavily you think you may break. Your cheeks burn as you contemplate how to answer Max’s question. You desperately want to tell him you’re okay. To lie about how broken you feel while the man that you’re in love with misses another milestone in your life.

“I don’t know.” Emotion claws at your throat, threatening to pull you under right here in the middle of an art gallery.

Suddenly you turn away from Max, eyes scanning the room desperately looking for a familiar shock of mahogany colored hair. Max stares after you, eyes narrowed at your sudden departure. Your answer plays in his head as he watches you seemingly spot the person you’d been looking for. You start across the room, hoping your sense of determination lasts until you reach Charles.

“Are you okay?” Your brother looks past the man he’d been speaking to when he sees the desperation in your face.

“I…Charles, I…” You fumble for your words, mind still scrambling to figure out what your body’s plan was.

Charles steps around the man and grabs your elbow. “Take a breath, Little Dove.” He soothes. You follow his instructions and take a few steadying breaths, allowing the feeling of your brother’s hand sitting heavy at your elbow to ground you.

After a few moments you manage to find your voice. “When do you close on the new apartment?”

missleclerc posted:

57,029 likes liked by charlesleclerc, maxverstappen1, nessas_gallery and others missleclerc oh what a night <3 thank you to everyone who took time out of their busy schedules to spend an evening with me celebrating the new show. the pieces will be on display at @/nessas_gallery for the rest of the month!! charlesleclerc another successful opening, little dove! so proud of you >>>arthurleclerc yes, so proud! glad we were able to make it out to support you! >>>user028 the way her brothers are her biggest fans is just...ugh. so cute. >>>user000 and the little dove nickname!! i die. user122 no lando in the likes, comments OR pictures??? where you at bruh??? >>>user0200 did you see that gossip post?! he didn't even show up! >>>user122 ew. seriously???

f1_wag_gossip posted

35,291 likes f1_wag_gossip Lando's girlfriend (also Charles LeClerc's little sister) @/missleclerc’s art was on display at an art gallery opening this Friday night in Monaco but one person was notably missing: Lando Norris himself. Sources snapped photos inside of Miss LeClerc laughing with none other than Max Verstappen before leaving the gallery later in the evening with her brothers and Max in tow. Several people tell me that she looked very upset after the show. Max even had his arm around her as she swiped at tears while waiting for Arthur's car to be brought around. Is there trouble in paradise for the artist and her longtime pilot boyfriend??? user222 he was on Max F's stream for HOURS Friday night. He chose playing Tarkov over going to his girlfriend's art show??? user122 If Max Verstappen, the man that had to have a CURFEW imposed on him by his own team because he stayed up too late playing video games, can put the controller down for one night to attend a FRIENDS art show, surely the poor girls own boyfriend could have done the same??? >>>user222 seriously. tf were you thinking @/Lando??? user988 gross behavior. idk why she's still with him user2237 I wonder how many other events of hers he's ruined?

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @formulaal, @martygraciesversion381, @longhairkoo, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @chlmtfilms , @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @chelseyyouraverageluigi @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @imlonelydontsendhelp @nina-or-anna-or-nora @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @glitteryturtledeer @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx

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1K notes · View notes

currently-becoming-potatoes · 11 months ago

Text

List of words for the computer:

LONG POST- more under the cut

STANFORD- Pulls up a file on Stanford Pines, written by an unknown scientist. It discusses his extra finger and praises his intelligence, as well as calling him the “next evolution in the human species”.

BILL CIPHER- Takes you to the Wikipedia page for the Eye of Providence. Also took me to a Sesame Street video about a Jazzy Triangle and a Square. Not sure what prompted the change.

STANLEY PINES: Takes you to a list of EBay listings for brass knuckles.

FIDDLEFORD: Takes you to the music video for Cotton Eye Joe by Rednex.

SHERMIE: Nothing. I sure do wish we got some lore about Grandpa Pines.

GRAVITY FALLS: The text on the computer reads “never heard of it” and the red light on the bottom turns green.

ALEX HIRSCH: Leads to Google Images for “flannel”. Huh.

WEIRDMAGEDDON: Pulls up an article from the Gravity Falls Gossiper about how nothing happened at all and there was no apocalypse.

DISNEY: Screen reads “rat.gif censored for your protection”

SOOS: Leads to a page of writing from Soos himself, referencing many things (including Tad Strange being gay and madly in love with Woodpecker Guy. Love wins!!!)

DIPPER: Leads to a creepy yellow parchment with a message from Bill Cipher himself trying to trick Dipper into blinding himself by staring at the sun for 13 hours straight! Silly! (Also if you keep clicking on it, the page gets darker and blurrier until it implies we've gone blind)

MABEL: Causes stickers to appear on every available surface. Clicking it enough times leads to message “lab now fully Mabelized”.

WENDY: Leads to a note from Wendy that mentions a way to ward off evil triangles written in the bottom corner of the book.

GIDEON: Makes a web recording of Gideon scatting play. It ends with “I love you forever Mabel”. Please shut the fuck up you little creep.

TAD STRANGE: Plays a video of bread with smooth jazz in the background.

TOBY DETERMINED: Leads to a Google search for a restraining order. Holyyyyy shittttttt

WHO ARE YOU: “I could ask you the same question”

SEASON 3: “Season Two”. I guess that’s that lol

This was about all I could find. Please reblog with anything else you can discover! Thank you, fellow Gravity Falls enjoyers!

And make sure to give some love to all the wonderful folks down in the comments! Many of these answers and tips come from what they've found. I can't list everyone, unfortunately- I didn't expect this post to get popular- but, to everyone who's helped out, THANK YOU.

FURTHER EDITS:

BLIND EYE: Pulls up an optometrist’s eye exam. Each line reads “WKHBOOVHH”. Too lazy to translate atm.

PIÑATA: Bill Cipher getting beaten to death /hj

MASON: A note from Dipper listing several anagrams of Gravity Falls characters’ names. You can check in the comments for the answers.

AXOLOTL: “You ask alotl questions”. Thanks for the pun, Alex, but I’m kind of losing my mind rn

MYSTERY SHACK: Leads to a Google search for Confusion Hill, the real-life Mystery Shack!

MYSTERY: “?”

MONSTER: Leads to several YouTube videos for “There’s a Monster at the End of this Book.”

VALLIS CINERIS: Leads to an analog-horror-esque video of Baby Bill and his parents, who have been blotted out by static, and a voice repeating “WHY DID YOU DO IT” over and over again until you stop the video.

PORTAL: “Portal.exe has been deleted. I bet you could build a new one.”

GIFFANY: You need to put it in multiple times. Several warnings about breaching firewall, followed by a message from GIFFANY saying “SOOS! I still love you!” or smth like that, and then GIFFANY herself briefly appearing onscreen. Trying again after that summons her more. Also lets you download some ZIP files.

DORITO: Summons an image of a spinning Dorito, followed by the most cursed image of Bill Cipher I have ever seen.

GOD: A short video of an axolotl in a tank with a Bill Cipher statue plays. This is Alex’s axolotl, shown in the Book of Bill countdown.

REALITY: “Is an illusion”

FILBRICK: “I’m not impressed”

CARYN: “I knew you were gonna write that”

GLASS SHARD BEACH: Leads to an image of the New Jersey Hell Hole.

ANY CUSS WORD: Pulls up a paper reading “NOT S&P APPROVED. WASH YOUR MOUTH OUT WITH SOAP” with an image of soap below.

MATPAT: Leads to a video of MatPat next to a conspiracy board, holding the Book of Bill. He tells us we’re on our own.

BABBA: Plays an audio recording of Dipper singing BABBA. Not Disco Girl, a different song.

CRAZ: Leads to the Jem and the Holograms theme.

XYLER: See above.

AD ASTRA PER ASPERA: Shows us two new journal pages from Ford and Mabel, studying the Cipher statue. They’re definitely worth the read, I teared up looking at them.

ANSWER: “Question”

QUESTION: “Answer”

SEASON ONE: “Season -1: Antigravity Falls”

SEASON TWO: “Season 1” …maybe scratch what I said about Season 3. Or don’t. Things are starting to damage my brain.

CURSED (got from @slimslamflimflam decoding the candle! Thanks!): Shows two pages talking about the dangers of drawing triangles, with the bottom of the second page showing several drawings of Bill and the words “HE IS COMING, RUN”

THE UNIVERSE: “Hologram”

RIZZ: “Life privileges revoked. Now releasing poison gas.” This response is repeated if you type in SKIBIDI or FORTNITE.

BABY: Shows an ultrasound of a fetus Bill Cipher, captioned “Look at what’s growing inside you! See you in nine months, papa!”

JOURNAL 3: “The Journal for Me”

PACIFICA: Leads to a note from Pacifica calling Bill Cipher “ick” and telling us to follow her on social media under “Platinum Paz”

PLATINUM PAZ: Pulls up an image of Northwest Manor with the llama symbol overlaid and a “NW” logo beneath. There's also a short story beneath!

LOVE: Leads to an audiobook of “The Love Triangle”. Need to read later.

BLENDIN: “The time agent lost and presumed incompetent”. Uh…?

SCARY: Leads to another audiobook of a cheesy Goosebumps-esque horror novel written by Bill himself, apparently.

DIVORCE: Shows you the logo of the bar Bill went to after his fight with Ford… Billford bitter exes confirmed

ROBBIE: Leads to the cringiest messages ever. He’s such a failure I love him

CONSPIRACY: Leads to a video of a man losing his mind over the countdown counting up. I feel so seen. (I have been informed that his name is Charlie Day, he's an actor from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and that one meme, he had a quote on the back of the Book of Bill, thanks to everyone who explained that to me, I'm sorry, I'm uncultured)

RAT: “Thurburt’s number?”

BLANCHIN: Leads to a YouTube video on how to blanch vegetables.

TJ ECKLEBURG: “Never mention that name again.”

NOTHING: “Something”

SOMETHING: “Nothing”

BURNSIDE: “Burned inside.” Well… at least we know what happened…

WADDLES: Leads to the pig placement network!

THERAPRISM: Pulls up a sign from the theraprism regarding an emergency situation. The code reads "THE OLD ONE".

SHAPE: Pulls up an article on Plato, triangles, and Ancient Greece. This article is presumably written by Bill.

LLIB and BILL: THIS leads to the Sesame Street video every time.

WEIRD: Shows a video of a frightened Weird Al panicking about being trapped in a computer. Sorry, man...

CLONE: Pulls up an image of Paper Jam Dipper, a warning about not getting him too close to liquids, and an option to print.

TRIANGLE: ")" or "Tri harder."

THEYLLSEE: "Is seeing believing?"

DEER TEETH: "For you, kid!"

LIFE: "Life: 72% complete. Now loading: death."

DEATH: "Life's goth cousin."

PINES: "A good family tree."

OWL TROWEL: A slab of hieroglyphs, translating to an ancient ad for an owl trowel.

SCALENE: "Life form not found." EUCLID has the same outcome.

WELL WELL WELL BEING: Some assorted notes from Bill's Theraprism file. These include his greatest love and fear, his art therapy notes, and notes on his phobias. Three clicks is required to read them all.

BOO BERRY: Offers a poem on the meaning of life! Wow! I feel so enlightened!

LOVE YA BRO: Shows us a doodle from Stan of one of his and Ford's Sea Grunks adventures, and another code on the back. It translates to "Kings of New Jersey." I've been told it lets you download the code as a font.

SORRY: Reveals the repaired Backupsmore photo, with a note from Fiddleford about his and Ford's growing friendship. Fiddauthor fans, we are eating well tonight!

HORROR: Pulls up an image and report on The Always Garden, which is essentially a cheap Italian restaurant hidden in the backrooms.

HOLOGRAM: "Universe."

NAITSUAF: Pulls up a page that looks like it would be from the Book of Bill, in which Bill tries to convince us to sell us his soul. Clicking "ARE YOU READY?" pulls up a contract where we can sell our soul to Bill (with an alarming amount of coded fine print. Will need to translate later). You can print this document out, back out, or sign it right there on the web. Hitting "SIGN" causes the words "PLEASURE DOING BUSINESS WITH YOU!" to appear, and the document to close. In other words, I no longer have a soul.

IMSTILLONYOURMIND: Plays a recording of the ocean, with Stan faintly talking in the background. Poor Ford ain't quite over the divorce yet...

HOTXOLOTL: Pulls up a "MOST WANTED" doc on the henchmaniacs.

SEVENEYES: Pulls up a faded polaroid of The Oracle with text on the back that reads "LEAVE HIM. Escape to dimension *blurred out*. It's against the rules but it's the only reality where you'll be safe from him." The code at the bottom (once again decoded by the powerhouse that is @slimslamflimflam) reads "Set a course for Dimension: R34LITY." Is another Cipher Hunt in the makes? Only time will tell, hehehe.

JUST FIT IN: Plays an old commercial with a few moments of speech in the glitches at the end.

EVEN HIS LIES ARE LIES: Shows a transcript from a therapy session at the Theraprism. Bill discusses his relationship with Ford and cuts off the session when someone brings up his parents.

NOT A PHASE: Shows a Google search for "black hair dye stained an entire bathroom."

PAPER IS BOOK SKIN: Instantly downloads a page of fleshy pink paper with the word "ENJOY" written on it!

SHAVE YOUR GRANDMA: Pulls up a few more pages about the human life cycle.

LIES: Pulls up an image of "The Game of Lies" board game, with a long stretch of text from (I assume) Bill, ending with "LIE UNTIL YOU ARE NOT LYING ANYMORE." Someone has some issues...

SAY BAAAA: Pulls up a neat little rhyme about being Bill Cipher's obedient flock of sheep. The code at the end translates to "Black Sheep."

ONE EYED KING: Plays a video of a hypnotist's spiral, with Bill proclaiming "YOU WANT TO PLEDGE YOUR SOUL TO BILL CIPHER" in the background. There is also morse code that translates to "NAITSUAF", leading to a previous discovery- the soul contract.

TANTRUM: Pulls up a transcript of a spat between Bill and Time Baby.

TITANS BLOOD: "HOOT HOOT! Password please!"

CURSE WITTEBANE: Pulls up an image of a Bill Cipher ouija board.

FORDTRAMARINE: Pulls up several rejected files from Ford trying to convince us Fordtramarine exists.

SUCK IT MERLIN: Pulls up a tapestry of Bill riding a unicorn. The code at the top reads "DAY MARE VS NIGHTMARE."

HEY NERD: Plays a commercial advertising things such as a Bill Cipher calendar, the Scrubba-Bill, a severed hand, and the entire Cygnus-XIII galaxy. Half of the image can be found in the Book of Bill.

DESTRUCTION IS THE FORM OF CREATION: Pulls up a frantic page of notes from post-portal-shit Fiddleford. A sticky note at the bottom has a code that reads "Unreality."

RUBBERHOSE: Plays "The World is Small Ever After for All."

IRREGULAR: Shows us Bill's mugshot in color. The code below reads "No prison or attention span can hold him."

UNREALITY: Offers a guide by Bill on how to become immortal.

GUN: "Oh yes oh yes oh yes they both."

ABUELITA: Leads to a video on vacuuming the walls.

YES: "What's McGucket's favorite soda?"

NO: "Your loss..."

REPEATEDLY CLICKING STAN: This stuff deserves a section of its own, away from the OG Stan stuff. It takes you through several Ebay listings on various Stan-ish items until you get to a page written by Bill about Stan's secret shames. "Ex-wives" further confirms our theory on Stan and Eda's relationship, as well as revealing many other bits of lore. "Fears" is somewhat goofy to be honest. "Secret Shames" reveals that Stan is a fanfiction writer and that his mother is the only member of his family who truly loves him outside of Ford and the kids. "Unreported Crimes" is somewhat goofy as well. "Failed Products" basically confirms that Stan is that world's Alex. "Lowest Moments" is genuinely depressing, and "Darkest Thought". Well. I'm not spoiling it lol. And the bit on "How He Beat Me" causes Bill to get more and more frantic/angry the more you click it! Comedy GOLD!

DIPPY FRESH: Leads to a Reddit post of the Burger King Kids Club.

MEOW: Leads to a TikTok of a man playing the Gravity Falls theme on that cap keyboard.

HELP ME: Pulls up another video of Alex's axolotl and the tiny statue. Rip Bill ig :/

R34LITY: Pulls up several photos of the henchmaniacs in live-action, captioned "They found a new home."

JOURNAL 1: "The journal of fun."

JOURNAL 2: "The journal for you."

FBI: "Your webcam is on. We are watching."

BURNED INSIDE: Shows an image of a charred Oregon Parks badge and nametag on the ground.

HECTORING: Plays a silly little country song!

OROBOROUS: Pulls up two journal pages about Fiddleford buying Ford an axolotl to keep him company, and Bill subsequently telling Ford to get rid of him. There's also some code on the first page that reads "CHONKY BOY." Ford, you wonderful dork.

#the book of bill #gravity falls #thisisnotawebsitedotcom #bill cipher #stanford pines #stanley pines #dipper pines #mabel pines #soos ramirez #wendy corduroy #gideon gleeful #(please help I don’t know what’s going on)

3K notes · View notes

science-hoes · 2 months ago

Text

Juno

Jack Abbot x Reader

Description: Jack and the reader spend a day in the park with Robby and his family, leading to some heartfelt confessions. Once they both return to Jack’s house, they take the next step in their relationship (and maybe jumping a few steps in the process). Standalone fic or Chapter Four of You Are In Love.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, breeding kink, canon typical medical descriptions, discussion about Jack’s dead wife, taking care of Jack’s leg after a long day, reader is a Sabrina Carpenter fan, Jack is an Old Man, Jack and Robby are never beating the soulmates allegations, as always technically a Robby x reader fic because his wife is intentionally left unnamed so you can have the best of both worlds, beware of typos, this is about 9.5k words 🥹

Chapters: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four

Jack Abbot Masterlist

—

Robby shoved his wallet and keys into the pocket of his shorts while he balanced baby Abbot on one of his arms. He chuckled when he looked down at Eliza, who had expertly dressed herself in a dress and fairy wings. “You’ll have to take your wings off to get in the car seat, okay?”

Eliza jumped around her father, moving towards the front door, ever a beacon of energy. “Okayyy.” She agreed in a sing-songy voice.

Robby’s wife met them at the door to the garage, diaper bag slung over her shoulder. “I think we’re good to go.” She announced, tickling baby Abbot’s socked foot, drawing a giggle from the baby.

Robby turned back towards the hallway. “Alright, let me just grab my sunglasses and-“ He was cut off by a ceremoniously loud hiccup followed by a stream of spit-up leaking down his arm from his son. “Ah, fuck.” He mumbled.

“Robby.” His wife scolded quietly, looking at Eliza.

Robby reached into the diaper bag on her back and fished out a burping cloth to clean off his arm. “She didn’t hear me.” He quickly defended, thankful that his daughter didn’t seem to clock his profanity.

His wife just shook her head but smiled anyway. “Are they gonna meet us at the park?” She asked.

Robby wiped off baby Abbot’s chin before tossing the dirtied cloth into the hamper. “Yep. Jack just texted, said they’re on their way.” He confirmed.

His wife nodded and started going through her mental checklist. “Alright, I’ve got Abbot’s diaper bag, picnic blanket, sunscreen, band-aids, extra clothes for both of them…”

Robby chuckled and wrapped his arm around her to soothe her rambling. “Honey, we’re just going to the park.” He reminded.

His wife smirked and raised an eyebrow. “You underestimate our kids.” She warned, opening the door to the garage, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

Robby leaned down halfway to accept the kiss before he pulled the door all the way open, letting his girls walk out before him. “Alright, Robinavitches. Let’s roll.”

Eliza followed her mom out the door, but she underestimated the span of her fairy wings. One of the wings got caught in the doorway, jerking the child back, destroying her momentum. “Fuck!” Her little voice echoed in the garage, and Robby immediately winced.

“Michael!”

——

Jack had draped one hand over the steering wheel as he drove and the other on your lower thigh, elbow resting on the center console. You sipped happily on your iced coffee that he had handed to you with a kiss when you got into his truck.

“I don’t hate it.” He mused, looking to the screen displaying the current song selection you had queued up.

“Nobody hates Sabrina Carpenter.” You replied, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“I just don’t get who Juno is. Is it supposed to be a character in the song?” His brow was wrinkled with concentration as he turned into the parking lot of the park.

You raised an eyebrow. “You never saw the movie?” You asked.

“Uh uh.” He mumbled, maneuvering the wheel to ease into a parking spot.

“It’s a movie about a high school girl who gets pregnant. It’s a coming-of-age movie.” You educated him before taking the last sip of your iced coffee.

Jack put the car in park and looked at you with a bewildered face. “What? That’s what this song is about?” He questioned.

You shrugged, smiling at his astonishment. “Yeah, she wants the guy to fuck a baby in her.”

His face reddened far more than he would have liked, but it was adorable to you. “They play this song on the radio?” He stammered, and when you nodded, he just shook his head as he turned off the truck. “That’s a very sexual song.”

You giggled and hopped out of the truck, your feet crunching on the gravel of the lot. “Okay, grandpa. Is it time for your nap?” You teased, meeting him on the driver's side of the truck.

Jack couldn’t help but smile at you as you approached him, and he tugged gently at the skirt of your sundress, admiring the fabric. “You know, one day, you’re gonna pay for all these ‘grandpa’ and ‘old man’ jokes.” He warned, eyes crinkled from the bright sunshine.

You pressed your hands on his broad chest covered by a lavender polo, closing the distance between your bodies, admiring the way the sunlight enhanced the hazel of his eyes. “Is that a threat, Lieutenant Colonel?”

He chuckled and tilted his head down, nose brushing against yours. “S’not a threat.” He whispered and gently captured your lips with his. “It’s a promise.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and then it was your turn to blush. For a moment, you thought he might throw you back in his truck and take you home. Before you could regain your wits, a little voice called out from the grass field of the park.

“Uncle Jack!”

You both turned to look out to the park, and there was Eliza, in a pink dress and fairy wings hanging from her back, running as fast as her legs could go. Behind her was her family, sprawled out on a picnic blanket.

Jack placed a hand on your lower back to lead you to the park, and he knelt down to catch the little girl in his arms as she threw her arms around his neck. “Hey, princess.” He greeted, kissing her on the cheek.

Eliza giggled as he rose to his feet, hoisting her onto his shoulders. You tapped her knee as you walked towards the picnic blanket. “I love your wings.” You complimented.

She rested her head on the top of Jack’s, her face squished against his silvered curls. “Thank you.” She responded bashfully.

Jack kept a firm grasp on one of Eliza’s ankles so he could hold your hand, swinging your arms just slightly as you approached her family. Robby laid on his back, his head resting in his wife’s lap, as baby Abbot crawled across his upper body.

You knelt on the blanket across from them, your sundress billowing out. Jack hung Eliza by her feet, the little girl screaming and giggling as she squirmed, before laying her gently on the blanket.

“How much of your soul did you sell to get us all off on the same day?” Jack nudged Robby’s knee with his foot.

Robby balanced baby Abbot as he sat upright on his chest. “Only a third of it.” He answered earnestly. “Dana has been blowing up my phone all day complaining about the interns.”

Jack carefully began to kneel down, and you stabilized one of his arms with your own until he was settled next to you. He kissed your temple gently in gratitude before saying, “Those interns make me want to drink before I show up to work.”

You turned to give him an offended look. “Hey, I’m one of those interns.” You complained.

Robby’s wife shook her head. “You’re not one of those interns. You have survival instincts.” She corrected.

Robby lifted baby Abbot off his chest to let him crawl around on the blanket. “It’s true. In fact, you’ve improved other people’s survival instincts.” He noted before pointing at Jack. “Especially his.”

You thought Jack was going to respond with snark, but he just nodded. “Haven’t been on the roof in months.” He agreed.

Baby Abbot began to crawl towards you, moving slowly but surely. You reached your arms out to him, making grabby hands at the baby. “Glad I can be of service.” You deadpanned, but grinned when baby Abbot grabbed your legs, pulling at them. “He looks like he’s ready to stand.”

Robby’s wife sighed nostalgically. “He’s getting there.” She said, a frown on her face. “I wish he’d stay little forever.”

You scooped the baby in your arms, cradling him close. Jack leaned slightly over your shoulder to peer down at his nephew, contentedly snuggled into your chest. “Abbots don’t stay little. They grow big and strong.” He stated proudly, squeezing one of the baby’s chunky thighs.

Robby scoffed and sat up to stretch. “You’re literally five foot nine. Baby Abbot is gonna grow big and strong thanks to me.” He argued.

Jack sat up straighter, brow furrowed. “Thanks to you?” He genuinely laughed. “You have the same body shape as one of those floppy air people outside of car dealerships.”

“Yeah, at least I can reach the top shelf in the supply closet.”

“But you needed help unscrewing that oxygen tank last week?”

“Hey, do you wanna race to that sign over there? I’ll even give you a five-second head start.”

Robby’s wife audibly groaned and dropped her head back. “I can’t do this again.” She mumbled.

You rolled your eyes, bouncing baby Abbot in your arms. “Have they always been like this?” You asked.

She nodded solemnly as Robby laid back again, head in her lap, staring up at the sky. “Dana has told me stories of their first years as attendings. Honestly, I don’t know how she’s done it all this time.”

Jack and Robby looked to their respective partners, seemingly offended that anyone could be annoyed by their antics. You leaned in with interest. “Stories?” You repeated.

“Oh, yes.”

You stole a glance at Jack, who suddenly looked uneasy. “Like what?”

Robby’s wife smiled smugly, letting Eliza flop into her embrace after she had thoroughly inspected a ladybug on the picnic blanket. “Their first interns hated them so much that they casted their legs together while they were asleep during a snowstorm.”

You stared blankly at her, trying to figure out what question to ask first. “How?” Was all you could muster. “Were they asleep in the same bed?”

Jack sat up straight, ready to defend his honor, while Robby started reaching up to cover his wife’s mouth, but Eliza snatched at his arm to stop him.

“That’s not nice, Daddy!” She exclaimed through a fit of laughing.

“Mommy is not nice.” He grunted as his wife helped to hold his arm down.

“They say that they were asleep on different stretchers, and the interns put them right next to each other.” His wife began to explain. “But I don’t buy it.”

Jack tilted his head down until his gaze was sharper. “We were asleep on different stretchers.” He insisted.

You giggled and nudged his shoulder with yours. “It’s okay, you can say that you were snuggled up next to your best buddy. It was a snowstorm.” You teased with a smug grin.

Jack shook his head in annoyance, but he couldn’t resist matching your smile. Robby finally sat up, tickling Eliza so she would stop trying to attack him. The little girl squealed and kicked, but she was no match for her father’s strong arms. “Believe what you want.” He finally surrendered. “But when I fell asleep, the room was empty. If Jack came to sleep with me, then that was his scheming, not mine.”

You and his wife giggled, and Jack rolled his eyes so hard that you thought they’d get stuck like that. You looked down at baby Abbot again, who was beginning to drift off to sleep, content in your arms. His eyes blinked slowly, fixed on yours. One of his hands had a tiny fistful of the fabric of your sundress. You traced his soft, chubby cheek in a soothing pattern with your thumb, continuing even after his eyes remained closed. The sight made Jack’s heart skip a beat, and he desperately wished that it was his baby you were holding.

—

After another hour in the sun and Eliza’s insistence, your crew began to walk towards the nearby ice cream parlor. Robby pushed baby Abbot’s stroller on the sidewalk, and his wife held onto his bicep as they walked behind you and Jack. Eliza was perched on your shoulders, legs dangling on your chest. She and Jack were not on speaking terms right now.

“Uncle Jaaaaaack.” She drawled.

Jack crossed his arms dramatically over his chest and cocked his head to the side, away from her. “I can’t hear traitors.” He said to nobody in particular.

You giggled and bumped his arm with your shoulder. “You’re just jealous she wanted me to carry her.” You teased.

He looked down at you with a fake glare, but the glimmer of playfulness in his eyes was undeniable. “She’s forgetting who held her first.” He retorted, looking up to his niece with the same intense stare.

Eliza giggled and rested her head on top of yours, letting her arms hang limp on either side as she rested. You raised an eyebrow, not following his statement. “Held her first?” You repeated.

Jack accidentally let a smile break through as he thought back on the memory. “Yep. I delivered her.” He replied.

Your heart warmed at the thought, and suddenly their connection made more sense. You turned slightly to look back at Robby’s wife. “You had to deliver in the Pitt?” You questioned.

She let out an exasperated breath, clearly unhappy about the thought. “It was a less-than-ideal situation.” She deadpanned.

Eliza nudged one of her feet at Jack’s shoulders. “Uncle Jack was my first best friend!” She exclaimed.

And with that, Jack couldn’t keep pretending to be mad at her. He grabbed the foot that bumped his shoulder and shook it gently. “Best friends forever, yeah?” He said.

She giggled and reached for him, so you carefully transferred her from your shoulders to his arms. “Yeah!” She squealed, snuggling into his embrace, fairy wings nearly blocking his view as the ice cream shop came into view.

After everyone got their ice cream, your group took over a table outside. Eliza dug into her cotton candy ice cream as delicately as a five-year-old could, the pink and blue beginning to stain her mouth. Robby had a praline ice cream cone that his wife kept stealing bites from despite having her chocolate ice cream cone. Jack had opted for butter pecan, while you were more adventurous with a limited flavor called “Espresso,” inspired by Sabrina Carpenter’s song.

As the sun began to beat down on your ice cream, your tongue contained the melting treat to its cone, licking up any tributary that threatened to spill down the edges. Jack pretended not to notice the way your tongue moved with ease, and he really tried not to imagine the ice cream cone replaced with his-

“Uncle Jack, when are we going swimming at your house?” Eliza’s voice cut through his impure thoughts.

He straightened his already impeccable posture and looked at his niece. “How about next Friday?” He suggested, then looked over to Robby and his wife for approval.

“For your birthday?” Robby asked, surprise laced in his voice. Jack never wanted to celebrate his birthday.

Jack nodded slowly, like he was still trying to convince himself. “Yeah, sure. I think we all have the evening off.” He confirmed.

Eliza took another bite of her ice cream before asking, “What about Nana?”

“Nana can come, too.” He promised.

Robby nodded as he dipped his pinky into his ice cream, then pushed it against baby Abbot’s mouth. The baby boy smiled and kicked his feet with excitement at the taste of the sweet treat. “You like that, buddy?” His father cooed, ready to give him more.

Eliza shoved her ice cream at her baby brother. “Let Abby have some of mine!” She exclaimed.

Robby’s wife smiled and dabbed her finger in the pink and blue swirl. “That’s very sweet of you to share, Eliza.” She praised.

Baby Abbot squealed and kicked his legs again at the taste of more ice cream. His parents laughed, and Eliza scooted closer to him. You smiled as you watched the family, heartstrings pulled by their joy and love for each other.

Instinctively, you looked up to Jack, but he was already looking at you. His eyes glowed with adoration in the light of the early sunset. He brushed a strand of hair out of your face from the gentle breeze. Just when you thought he was going to lean down and kiss you to complete the cinematic moment, he furrowed his brow.

“Um…I think you have a little ice cream right there.” He said, tapping his nose to show where you should clean.

Your face flushed with embarrassment, and you frantically reached up to your face. “Right where?” You questioned.

Jack bumped your elbow, sending your ice cream cone to smash against your nose, smearing across your skin. “Right there.” He answered with a devilish grin.

After the shock wore off, you broke into a wide smile and began smacking his chest with your free hand. “I fucking hate you.” You hissed, quiet enough that Eliza couldn’t hear, but it was laced with laughter.

Jack tried to defend himself from your attacks, leaning away when you came to press a messy, ice-creamy kiss on his mouth. But he eventually relented, licking the sweetness from your lips as his face became covered with the dessert. “No, you don’t.” He breathed against your mouth.

Eventually, your laughs faded, breathless, and you grabbed a napkin to wipe off your mouth and his. As you do, you take notice of the extra freckles on his face from a day in the sunshine. “Your freckles are darker.” You admired, tracing the constellations on his cheeks.

“Yeah.” He replied, his voice softer than his usual gravel. “Sun brings 'em out.”

Before he could say more, Eliza shrieked with delight as Robby lifted her out of her chair and swung her in wide, dizzying circles. Her fairy wings fluttered with each spin. Jack glanced over, and you felt his posture shift as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. His smile remained, but it dulled at the edges, like a ghost passed through it.

“They make it look easy.” You noted, watching Robby hand Eliza off to his wife, who kissed the top of her head with practiced tenderness.

“It’s not.” Jack replied, almost absently. “But they’re good at it.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. His gaze had drifted toward baby Abbot, now asleep in his stroller with melted ice cream dribbling down his chin. Robby crouched beside him, wiping it away with a gentle, aged hand.

“Does it make you want that?” You asked earnestly.

Jack was quiet for a beat too long, and you worried that you may have pushed him too far out of his comfort zone. He drew in a long breath through his nostrils. “Used to think it wasn’t in the cards for me.” He admitted. “Not the way things have been. The job. The chaos. The bullshit. But…” He looked at you now, really looked. With those gorgeous hazel eyes that bore his entire soul. “Then I see you holding Abbot. I see you lighting Eliza up like she’s got stars inside her. And I think… maybe I was wrong.

You didn’t know what to say to that. Your chest ached, full and warm and a little unsteady, and tears began to sting your eyes. So instead, you reached out and took his hand under the table, just as Eliza crashed into your side with a burst of laughter, tugging at your arm.

“Come see the rock I found!” She pleaded.

You happily relented, standing to follow the child. “Okay, okay.” You agreed.

Jack watched you go with her, his hand still holding yours, fingertips grazing your skin until you were just out of reach.

And he knew it then.

He didn’t want to let go tonight.

—-

After lots of hugs and promises to see each other next Friday night for the pool party, you and Jack parted ways from Robby and his family. The ride home was similar to the ride to the park. Jack’s hand on your thigh, music of your choice humming through the speakers, and an aura of contentment mixed with the AC of the truck. Now and then, Jack would steal glances of you gazing out the window, eyes fixed on the sinking sun, and smile to himself.

Once you arrived at his house, he led you through the threshold, hand on your lower back. Not like he was inviting you inside, but like he was welcoming you home. After kicking off your sandals and lining them neatly next to the wall, you turned to find him leaning against the closed door, just…looking at you.

“Something on your mind?” You asked, closing the distance between the two of you, resting your hands on his broad chest.

Jack smiled and grasped one of your hands, bringing it to his lips. He kissed your knuckles, each one, like it was a holy ritual. “I didn’t want today to end.” He admitted, lips brushing against the dorsum of your hand.

You nodded in agreement, reviewing the new freckles dusted on his nose. “It was a good day.”

His free hand trailed against your back, down to your waist, skimming the fabric of your sundress. “You’re great with them. With my family.” He noted, letting you stretch your hand across his stubbled jaw. “The way you hold Abbot and let him drool all over your dress while he sleeps.” He used his newly freed hand to gently tug at a strand of your hair that framed your face, inspecting the way the wave bounced back when he released. “The way you keep up with Eliza and every silly tangent she goes on.” The hand on your waist began to travel to the side, resting on your hip. “The way you laugh with Robby and talk to his wife like you’ve known her longer than he has.”

You pushed your fingertips backward into his dense curls, scratching gently at his scalp. “It’s really easy. They feel like my family.” You replied.

Jack smiled, warmer than the sun that was slowly turning the living room golden. “They are your family.” He corrected.

“Then what am I?” You whispered, leaning just a little closer until you could feel his breath fighting against yours.

He closed the distance between your faces, brushing his nose against yours, lips just barely touching. “You’re mine.”

This time, the kiss was different, no longer held back by nerves or doubt. It was gentle, but deeper now, like something had clicked into place. He led you to the bedroom in that same slow, reverent way. Every movement felt intentional, like unwrapping something sacred. He helped slide the straps of your sundress off your shoulders, brushing his lips over every new inch of skin revealed to him. You unbuttoned his lavender polo with shaky fingers, anticipation coursing through your veins, and pulled the fabric over his shoulders.

His freckles rivaled the stars in both number and beauty. You seared hot, open-mouth kisses across his neck and chest, lapping up the salt that crystallized on his body from the warm, sunny day. Now and then, you dared to suck on the tender flesh, drawing a heavenly moan from his throat.

Jack’s fingers found the zipper to your dress and began to pull it down slowly. “I haven’t done this…in a long time.” He found the words to say.

You shuddered as more and more air hit your open back as the zipper slid down. “How long?”

He swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat shifting. “10 years.”

Your eyes widened. “You haven’t fucked anyone in 10 years?”

Jack let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, I’ve fucked.” He corrected, but your raised eyebrow and unamused stare inspired him to clarify. “But I haven’t done this.”

You tilted your head, tracing the chiseled outline of his pectoral muscles. “What is this?”

Love. That’s what he wanted to say. He didn’t dare speak it into existence. Not yet. But you already knew. From the way he had first kissed you a few weeks ago. From the way he looked at you with those incandescent eyes. The word didn’t leave his lips. But you could hear it in the silence.

Instead, he dropped his lips to your shoulder and whispered, “You know.”

Your fingers threaded through his chrome curls, taking root as he began to drag his teeth across your clavicle. “I know.” You confirmed.

With a final tug at the zipper, your sundress floated to the ground, pooling at your ankles. When Jack pulled away to admire your body, he choked on his breath when he saw that you had no bra or panties underneath your dress.

“You didn’t have anything on under there all day?” He stuttered, eyes unashamedly raking over your body, indulging in your naked beauty for the first time.

You shrugged, a little self-conscious at his questioning. “It’s a sundress.” You replied like it was the obvious answer.

Jack snaked his arms around your body, pulling you in close, chests smashed together, sharing body heat. “You’re fucking gorgeous.” He breathed, mouth hovering over your carotid, dropping an open mouth kiss on your pulse.

You tilted your head back, exposing more of your neck, and whimpered as he explored with his lips. He moved backward towards his bed, sitting down when the mattress bumped against his knees, and pulled you to straddle his lap. With your breasts now hovering just above his eyes, his mouth latched to one of your nipples, securing it between his teeth. Your back arched when he sucked, and your hips ground against his, your bare pussy leaving a damning wet spot on his jeans.

“Oh, Jack.” You whimpered, and he nearly came at the way you said his name.

He hummed in acknowledgment, reaching up to your other breast, tweaking and twisting the hardened nipple between his thumb and index finger. Another grind of your hips, this time grazing his rock-hard cock in the process. The deep vibration of his groan sent shivers through your body as he engulfed more of your breast in his mouth. His free hand gripped your hip like it was the only thing tethering him to reality and guided you to grind against him once more. And again. And again. And again until you reached down to his belt buckle, unlatching the metal, and snatching the leather from around his waist. Your fingers rustled at the button and zipper until you freed his hips from the snug fit of his jeans.

“Can I take them off, please?” You begged, mind clouded with hypothetical guesses of how he looked fully naked.

But that was when Jack slowly sat up straight with that all too familiar look of hesitation and vulnerability that you hadn’t seen since the ice skating rink. His hazel eyes flicked between your irises, unable to focus on one as his thoughts raced to form the right answer.

“I would need to, um…take off my prosthetic.” He finally confessed.

You smiled slightly at the mole hill that he was seemingly making a mountain out of. “Okay.” You chirped. “Can I help you?”

Jack opened his mouth to speak, possible excuses ghosting through his lips as they twitched, until he settled on the truth. “I’ve never had sex without it.”

You raised an amused eyebrow. “So what, you’d take off your foot, then your pants, then put the foot back on?”

He huffed a laugh and shook his head. “No. I just wouldn’t take off my pants.”

“So for the last 10 years, you just dropped your pants enough to fuck?”

“Exactly that.”

Your smile faded slowly as realization hit you. “Oh. So nobody’s seen your whole body since before…”

Jack’s lips pulled into a thin line, exhaling deeply. “Yeah.”

The look in his eyes sent a stab to your chest. He was scared. You ran a hand against the side of his face, stopping once your fingers threaded through his hair. “Are you scared that I’m gonna find it unattractive or something?” You asked.

He didn’t look away from you, but the sad look in his eyes gave you your answer. He didn’t want to say it out loud because it would sound so silly, so juvenile. But it was true. How could a gorgeous woman like you love a deformed man like him? Sure, they made a whole Disney movie about it, more than one actually, but only one where the deformed guy gets the girl, and that’s after he turns back into-

“Jack?”

Your voice brought him back to the small air you shared together. His eyes focused again, watching the way you shifted in his lap, and your other hand came to rest on his face, holding his head in your grasp.

“I love you.”

The words left your lips softly, deftly, like a secret. Jack didn’t react much, but his eyes widened ever so slightly, more of his hazel irises exposed, and a shaky breath escaped his lips. You continued your confession, maintaining intense eye contact, just how he liked it.

“I love you. You’ve had my heart from the first night I met you when I was on my emergency medicine rotation in med school. I didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t know it until I saw you with Eliza when she broke her arm. Seeing the way you cared for her and for Robby and for his family. I saw a man that I couldn’t help but love because he had nothing but love to give.”

Your words made him dizzy, like he was sucking helium, slowly getting high. Tears began to pool in the corners of his eyes, and you took it as a sign to keep going.

“I know you’ve been married before. I remember you used to wear a wedding ring during my med school rotations and the first couple of days of my intern year. I know she passed away a long time ago.”

It was the first time you ever mentioned his wife, not because you danced around the topic, but out of respect. Jack swallowed thickly at the mention of her.

“I don’t want to replace her. I don’t want to ever push her out of your heart. She was there first. But I just want you to know that you’ve got another person who loves you as much. Who would do anything to make you smile.”

And that made Jack smile. His eyes crinkled, leaning in to your lips with his. “I love you.” He mumbled into your mouth. “More than I thought I was able to love someone.”

His confession drew a relieved exhale from you, and you softened into the kiss, letting his mouth take you wherever was next. Until he pulled away to speak again:

“I haven’t worn my wedding band because of you.”

You heeded his words, but your brow furrowed as you thought back to the last time he wore the ring. “But that was months ago.” You said, really meaning to keep it in your thoughts, but it came out anyway.

Jack just nodded, moving to take one of the hands that cradled his face in his one. “Yeah. Not since the morning you found me talking to her on the roof.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “Talking to her?” You questioned.

Jack sighed, not in distress, but in a peaceful exhale. “In the mornings, I used to go up to the roof a lot. Especially after bad shifts. When the sun was rising, I would talk to her. My therapist thought it would keep me from actually jumping off the building to join her, and he was right.”

He laughed at the end of his sentence, and you smiled along with him, but then he met your gaze once more, staring deeply into your soul.

“I didn’t forget you after your med school rotation during your third year. And I was incredibly distraught when you didn’t take a fourth year rotation. I realized it was because I wanted you.” He confessed, then his jaw tightened. “Loved you.” He amended, like it was the first time the confession left his body. “That’s when I began to feel guilty. Like I was betraying her or cheating on her.”

Your brow furrowed in time with his, and he swallowed hard on the stressful memory.

“Those first couple of shifts that you were with me this year were hell. All I could think of was you, and it was eating me alive. I couldn’t even talk about it to Robby because then that made it real. That morning on the roof, I was talking to her about it. Apologizing for it. But then you showed up, not even looking for me, just trying to get some air. And when I saw you, the way the sun was glowing against your face, and you smiled at me…”

Jack smiled now, as he remembered your sleepy features from that morning melting away as you smiled and talked about the most grueling parts of your shift.

“I could hear her telling me to move on. Honest to God, I heard her voice.” His smile remained, but his eyes were dead serious. “Haven’t worn my wedding ring since that day. Haven’t ever taken it off for someone else because…”

You tilted your head as his eyes drifted down to the hand of yours that he held against his chest. “Because…?” You prompted.

“I’ve never met someone who I would replace the ring for.” He looked back up to your curious face. “Not until you."

Tears stung your eyes, and you took in a shaky breath through your lungs. “You’d marry me?”

Jack grinned, pressing his forehead against yours. “I would marry you tomorrow if you let me.” He answered honestly. “But you deserve some more fanfare than that. A pretty ring, a pretty dress, a pretty wedding.”

You wanted to protest, but the idea of marrying Jack was too much to handle. A proposal, a first dance, all while surrounded by family and friends. It made you smile, and you giggled as you tried to suppress your sheer excitement at the thoughts.

Jack just chuckled and peppered your nose with tiny kisses. “Yeah, you’d like that?” He teased, but so lovingly.

“Yeah.” You agreed, letting him kiss the warmth off your face.

Eventually you caught his mouth again with your own, and the kiss felt different. It was domestic, stable, and sure like an oath you were making to each other in that moment. He deepened the kiss first, moving his hands back to your hips, and you were reminded of the aching bulge you still sat upon.

“Jack?” You whispered, tilting your head as his lips roamed to your jawline.

“Yes, love?” He murmured, dragging his bottom lip against your skin as he moved down to your neck.

You tapped his right knee gently, and that made him pull away to look at you. “Can I help you take it off?” You asked quietly. “Please?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. He drew in a sharp breath when he nodded, his heart fluttering at the thought of someone helping him for the first time since he left inpatient physical therapy. “Yeah.” He whispered.

You climbed off his lap and slowly sank to your knees. He rolled up the right pant leg of his jeans slowly, revealing the prosthesis. The sleeve cover extended from the socket of the metal to his mid thigh, compressing his leg to secure the prosthetic.

“Show me how.” You demanded simply, the same tone you used when he had taught you how to intubate with a tactical crike kit for the first time.

Jack couldn’t help the smile that found its way to his lips. You were curious, desperate to learn. One of the very things that made him fall for you almost two years ago. But this was so much more intimate than teaching you disaster medicine tricks and shortcuts. He was teaching you how to care for him.

He rested his fingers at the hem of the fabric sleeve on his thigh, thumbs hooking under the right material. “This is a sleeve that I put over the socket. It creates a seal to keep the socket in place, stops it from falling off.” He explained, and he began to roll down the sleeve.

Your hands grasped onto his, letting the sleeve snap back into place against his skin. “Let me do it.” You begged, looking up to him with those doe eyes. “Please. I want to learn.”

Jack relented, a small laugh at your earnestness. “Okay, okay.” He agreed. “But it’s gonna be really sweaty.”

You hooked your index fingers under the sleeve around his thigh and pulled down, letting the material roll over itself, slowly exposing more and more of his skin. He let out a hiss of relief as cold air mixed with the perspiration. The sleeve finally unrolled all the way, uncoupling his leg and the prosthetic.

“Yeah, just like that.” He confirmed with the familiar swirl of pride in his chest from whenever you successfully completed a new procedure. “Now I can just move it to the side.”

He placed the prosthetic beside the bed, and it stood up, perfectly balanced. You looked to his leg now, intrigued by the layers of fabric. “Okay, what’s next?” You questioned, fingers tracing over his bare knee.

Jack pointed to the first layer of fabric. “These are just socks. They help to keep a perfect fit within the socket.” He explained, and you removed the two black socks until you were met with silicone. “This is the liner. Why don’t you let me do this one? It collects a lot of sweat. Like a lot.”

You almost pouted when he wouldn’t let you remove the liner. As he carefully rolled it off, he didn’t notice you disappear into the bathroom until he heard the sink turn on and off. You returned with a damp towel, dropping to your knees again. When he removed the liner completely, the silicone material held a small pool of sweat.

Jack grimaced. “I know it’s gross, but-“

You cut him off by encasing his bare stump in the cold, damp towel, massaging gently through the material. He clenched his eyes shut at the euphoric sensation and tilted his head down toward his chest.

“Does this feel okay?” You asked, trying to apply just enough pressure to relieve the strain from a long day of walking through the park.

He just nodded, unable to speak, only grunting in relief as your fingers worked their magic. You dragged the towel up his thigh, wiping away at the sweat that had beaded throughout the day, cooling off the skin and letting it breathe. He closed his eyes, mostly to hold back tears. He had never been the recipient of such love and care and service, and it was almost overwhelming him.

That is, until he felt your lips on his knee. Kissing once, then twice. Then moving down his shin, a gentle trail of kisses. Until your mouth reached his stump where you stopped to inspect the faded amputation scar before searing it with more kisses.

You sat back on your knees, one hand still massaging the knotted muscles at his stump, and scanned his whole body. “You’re so beautiful, Jack.”

That was more than he could handle. A tear escaped from his eye, and he pulled you up to him, guiding your thighs to straddle his lap once more. His lips caught yours, desperate to taste you again, to battle your tongue for dominance that he was sure to win. You draped your arms around his neck, desperate for the warmth of his bare chest against yours. Absentmindedly, your hips bucked, smearing your wet pussy across the crotch of his jeans, dampening the bulge underneath the zipper. Jack only broke the connection of your lips to groan, the vibration pulling from his gut, far deeper than his chest.

“Oh, fuck, baby doll.” He muttered through clenched teeth, reaching a desperate hand to the fly of his pants.

Your hands met his at his waist, pulling down the zipper to reveal the signature “Lucky You” printed on the inside of the Lucky Brand jeans. How appropriate. Before you could shuck his pants off for him, you were swiftly rolled onto your back and tossed farther up the bed, the bedroom a blur, only stilling once you saw Jack crawling up to hover over your body. His jeans were now on the floor and fuck. He was hung. There was no way that-

“I love you.” His voice cut through your pussy’s panicking, and lowered to kiss the inside of your thigh, large hand gripping your knee just below. “I love you with everything that I am.” Kissing up your thigh now, moving dangerously close to your blazing, dripping core, stubble scraping across your marble skin. “And I want to spend the rest of my life making sure you know that.” His nose nudged against your mound, the heat surely condensating against his skin. His breath felt cool in comparison as it hit your folds but warmth spread across your body nevertheless. His eyes flicked up to yours, seeking permission, some kind of confirmation to grant him access to the one thing he’s been wanting since the day he met you.

When your thighs clenched around his shoulders instinctively at the sight, you found yourself unable to form a real sentence. The only thing that would come out of your mouth was a pathetic whimper of his name.

Jack nudged his nose against your hidden clit, like he was marking its location ahead of time to come back to, but his eyes never left you. “I need to you tell me what you want, love. Can’t keep going until you do.” His voice was soft and silvery, but you recognized the underlying strain of lust.

Your cheeks flushed, trying to build up the strength to vocalize your perverse wishes. “Can you eat me out?” You asked.

Jack lips quirked to the side in amusement. Your answer was so sweet and earnest. Not dirty like he was expecting. “You want me to eat you out, honey?” He asked. “Yeah?”

You nodded, brows furrowing in anticipation. “Yeah.” You confirmed.

Without another second of hesitation, Jack dropped his mouth and licked a long, searing stripe against your folds, catching every drop of wetness that had been waiting for him. Your thighs clenched around his head as you screamed his name, fistfuls of his sheets bunched in your hands.

“So wet, goddamn.” He mumbled, gently kissing your pussy, humming as his nose brushed against your clit again. “All this for me? Huh?”

Your fingers found purchase in his chrome curls, anchoring in his scalp, hotly sensitive to his ministrations. “Mmhmm.” You mumbled. “Only for you.”

Jack pressed another kiss to your weeping hole. “That’s right. Only for me.” He reiterated before his tongue dove deep into your core.

Vulgar sounds of his tongue lapping your juices, smacks from his sucking mouth, and your high pitched whines filled the air of his bedroom. It didn’t take long for your abdomen to coil, the telltale hint of an orgasm approaching steadily. But before you could warn him, Jack pulled away, much to your dismay.

“Jaaaaack.” You whimpered, rubbing your thighs against his neck.

He looked up to you, his jaw already gleaming with your juices. “Hold on, baby doll.” He shushed you as his thumb trailed against your folds, moving a little bit higher. “Gonna make you feel better.”

His thick fingers moved to your clit, maneuvering the soft skin until your sensitive bud was fully exposed to the cold air of the room. Without warning, he placed a sickeningly slow kiss against it, pulling back with concentrated suction on the bundle of nerves. Your thighs clamped shut around his neck, and if you were choking him, he didn’t mind the asphyxiation.

“How’s that feel, huh?” He mumbled against your pussy, his stubble burning deliciously against you as he spoke.

Your grip in his hair tightened, forcing his mouth back against your clit again. “S-so good, baby.” You breathed.

Another draw of his mouth against your clit had you screaming his name, squeezing tighter around his neck to a point that he had to use his free hand to slightly pry your thigh enough for a short breath of air. But he didn’t stop. The dance continued like that for a while, him frenching your clit as you squirmed underneath, helpless to his power. When he slipped a thick index finger into your pussy, curling perfectly against that spongy spot inside you, it was only a matter of time before you saw stars.

“Jack, I’m gonna come.” You said it like a warning but Jack took it as a task.

He didn’t stop to praise you or tease you. As soon as your said those words, he was a man on a mission. His suckling mouth doubled down against your clit, taking in the sensitive bud like a devotion. The thick index finger inside you was joined by his middle finger, stretching you further, putting more pressure on that spongy spot.

The twisting in your abdomen reached a peak, but something felt unusual in your core as Jack continued to finger you like a man possessed.

“Wait, Jack. Something feels different.” Your voice trembled, but if he had actually stopped, you think you would have died.

Instead, Jack just hummed against you. “Just give into it, baby doll. It’ll feel good.” His hoarse voice rasped against your bundle of nerves.

Before you could protest, the spring inside you snapped. Your walls pulsed around his large fingers as white heat rushed over your body in conjunction with your juices splashing across Jack’s face, dribbling down his chin as he licked you clean. Your chest heaved as your orgasm rolled through you, the grip in Jack’s curls loosening a bit as you reeled from your high.

“Holy shit.” You panted. “That was…good.”

You felt Jack chuckle as your thighs moved with his bouncing shoulders. “Told ya.” Was all he said with a smug grin before he finished off his meal, leaving nothing left behind.

He began to move up your body again, pressing kisses against your stomach, breasts, chest, neck, jaw, all the way back to your lips. You could taste yourself on his mouth and tongue, his chin slipping against yours from lubrication. You rolled your hips up against his, feeling his length pushing against your belly, aching to be sheathed inside you. When your hips bucked into his for a second time, Jack grabbed them on either side, pinning you down against the mattress.

“What’d I say, huh? Gotta use your words and tell me what you want.” He reminded you, breath ghosting against your neck.

Your hands ran up his back, dragging your fingernails with them in a soothing pattern. “I want you.”

Jack clicked his tongue and tilted his head to the side to look up at you. “You’re a doctor. I know you know more words than that.”

You whined and shut your eyes in frustration, trying to roll your hips again, but they were weighted down by his hands still. “I want your cock inside me.” You begged, and when you opened your eyes again, his were incredibly dilated, almost erasing the hazel completely.

“Atta girl.” He praised before lining up the fat head of his cock against your folds, running it up and down to collect your slick. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath fanning across your cheeks. “Ready?” He asked in a voice too soft to be the one that was commanding you just a moment ago, and surely not one that he ever used as a Lieutenant Colonel.

You nodded, securing your arms around his shoulders, bracing yourself. “I’m ready.” You confirmed, sealing your answer with a gentle kiss.

Jack moved forward slowly. Inch by inch. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six?

First, you couldn’t breathe. It was like the air had been knocked out of you, leaving your diaphragm reeling to regain function. The only thing that could come out was pathetic grunts from your chest, barely making it past your vocal cords.

“Almost there.” His coarse voice whispered.

Seven. Eight? Eight. Finally, pelvic bones fused. And that’s when your lungs could fill again, followed by a glass shattering scream. Jack just pressed kisses across your cheeks, smearing the tears that fell.

“That’s my girl.” He grunted softly between your staggered cries of pain.

Your chest heaved, struggling to adjust to his length and thickness. “J-Jack, it’s too much, I can’t do it.” You blubbered.

“You’re gonna have to, love.” He cooed, nuzzling his nose against yours.

More tears spilled from your eyes as he ripped you in half. He brushed away each one with his thumb, leaving kisses in their place. Slowly, he pulled out of you completely, and you could breathe again. But only for a moment.

Jack filled you up again, just a little quicker this time, and you squirmed underneath him. His name sputtered from your lips.

“You’re doing so good for me, kid.” He mumbled against your damp chest, beginning to pull out again.

And that repeated for a long time. Jack would thrust in, and you would scream, and he would praise you. Over and over. The pace picking up each time. Until finally, there was a rhythm. No waiting to finish his praise before he was thrusting in again.

And the pain morphed into pleasure. Your timid hips began to meet his thrusts halfway, and your cries of discomfort turned to cries of ecstasy. The sounds in the room were unholy but surely heaven felt like this.

But just as your second orgasm began to build, Jack’s hips began to stutter, and the veins in his neck bulged as he strained. “I’ve gotta…I’ve gotta stop.” He grunted.

You panicked, thinking he had changed his mind on a whim, the desperation in his voice sending you into a spiral. “What? Why?” You questioned.

He buried his head deep as he pulled out fully, leaving you painfully empty. “I was gonna come.” He rasped. “Don’t wanna yet. Wanna make you feel good.”

You felt relief wash over your body. But something spurred you to ignore his wishes. You linked your legs around his waist and crocodile rolled him with a swiftness. He would have stopped you, but, well, he only had one foot that was grounding him to the mattress.

“You make me feel good.” You reassured him as you lined up over his pelvis again, hovering above his throbbing cock. “You make me feel so good.” Your hand wrapped firmly around his cock, smothering the head against your folds. “But you’re gonna come.”

Before Jack could protest, you sank down on his length, and his voice cracked into incoherent cursing. You rocked on his hips slowly, splaying your hands across the old scar on his abdomen for support. “You’re gonna kill me, kid.” His voice was hoarse, but his smile was unwavering.

“Hopefully not anytime soon.” You whispered, eyes fluttering shut from the way his tip caressed that spongy spot inside you over and over.

And he laughed. You were riding him to his climax, grinding on him like it was your life mission to make him come, and you were making him laugh.

“I’m- oh fuck, I’m gonna come.” He said, and it was meant as a warning.

He was warning you to pull away, so he could use his hand to finish, maybe splatter against your stomach. But when you maintained his intense stare, bouncing impossibly faster on him, he knew your plan. He gripped your hips tightly and began to meet you halfway with sharp thrusts.

“Jack?”

“Yes, love?”

“Fuck a baby in me.”

Now that? That was enough to send Jack over the edge whether or not he wanted to. When he came, he made sure the whole neighborhood knew. His vocal cords shredded as his head pushed back into the bed, throat muscles shifting. You could feel the hot ropes of cum painting your insides with each twitch of his cock, and you slowed your pace to a gentle roll of your hips, milking each drop out of him.

When the spasms began to wane and his breathing returned to a consistent ebb and flow, he focused his gaze on you again. Your silhouette-framed by the golden glow of his bedside lamp, shimmering with sweat but still enchantingly beautiful. He smiled lazily and pulled you against his chest, careful not to pull you off his cock just yet.

Your head rested against his pectoral, right above his heart. Each thump was slower than the last as his breathing slowed to a normal rhythm. His hand ran through your hair, messed and knotted from throws of sex. You nearly fell asleep that way, in his arms, his cock slowly softening inside you, until he spoke:

“Did you mean it?”

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, the hazel in his eyes now the majority again. “Mean what?”

“You want a baby?” His voice was so gentle, so small, and so…hopeful. “With me?”

You smiled and brought a hand to the side of his face, pulling him down for a sweet kiss. “Yes, I want a baby.” You answered, but corrected yourself when you remembered his favor for specificity. “With you, Jack.”

Jack couldn’t hold back his smile that quickly transformed into a grin. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, brushing a thumb across his cheek bone. “Absolutely.” You replied before kissing him once more. “Besides, I think Eliza and Abbot need some cousins.”

—

Robby collapsed on the couch next to his wife, slinking lazily into her lap as she watched sitcom reruns. “Abbot is finally asleep.” He mumbled against her stomach, humming with content when her fingers began to card through his dark hair. “Wouldn’t stop babbling. Talks as much as Jack does. Maybe we should’ve named him after your grandfather instead.”

His wife giggled and traced the bridge of his nose. “You know the baby monitor is right here? I could hear you talking to him the entire time. You weren’t letting him sleep.” She replied.

Robby scoffed, wrapping his arms around her waist to secure his resting spot. “For your information, we were talking about very important business.”

“Post season stats for the Penguins is important business?” His wife deadpanned.

“Yes. I’m starting him early so that he can be as stressed as me one day and nearly go into cardiac arrest during every game.” He answered very seriously, trying to fight the sleep that called his name.

That is, until his phone buzzed. With a groan, fearing it was the night shift needing an extra hand or worse, Gloria, he sluggishly reached into his pocket. When the screen lit up, he groaned and raised the phone to his wife. “Read this for me, love. I don’t have my glasses on me.”

Before his wife could make a snarky comment about being an old man, the message on the screen drew a gasp from her. “Holy shit, Jack wants to go ring shopping.”

Robby perked up a bit, but was slow to trust his wife. “You know, it’s not nice to lie to your elders.” He teased.

She shook her head, shoving his phone closer to his face. “No, he really said it!” She exclaimed.

Robby furrowed his brow, holding his phone farther away until the text came into focus. “Well shit, he might beat us on fastest engagement.” He mused before typing back a question of “When do you wanna go?”

“Think they’ll beat us on the baby, too?” His wife teased.

Robby chuckled, placing his phone on his chest as he looked up to his wife. “I doubt it. Can’t let ‘em catch up to us though.” He said before pulling her down for a kiss. “Gotta keep our lead going strong.”

His wife pushed at his chest but still revelled in his kisses. “Give Abbot a chance to be the baby of the family.” She teased.

Robby shrugged, smirking up at her. “I’m just sayin’, only three more babies until I have a basketball team.” He joked in response.

She scratched his beard and squeezed his cheeks condescendingly. “In your dreams, Robinavitch.”

#jack abott x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot smut #Jack abbot #the pitt #the pitt hbo #michael robinavitch #Eliza robinavitch #abbot robinavitch #jack abbot x reader

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bratzforchris · 8 days ago

Text

TUMBLR GIRLS ୨ৎ matthew sturniolo

in which. . .you and matt have an on-again, off-again friends with benefits arrangement, but a post you make on tumblr threatens to derail it all

warnings: smut smut smut, intoxicated sex, dirty talk, choking, fingering, oral (f receiving), bondage, tummy bulge, unprotected p in v, lowkey i probably forgot something i wrote this a year ago 😭

wc: 2.9k

*originally posted on bratzforchris in spring 2024*

ever since you were a little girl, you had been enamored by the idea of being famous. something about the life called to you, whether that be walking down the street and people knowing you, or simply realizing that you were having an impact on someone, somewhere’s life. fortunately, you had grown up in the age of the internet, allowing you to truly harness what you had wanted to do for so long. you loved having creative freedom, and you loved making a persona that was truly you.

you had been making youtube videos, doing a variety of Instagram influencing, and posting carefully crafted aesthetic photos to tumblr ever since middle school. whereas a lot of the girls had moved out of their tumblr influencer phase, you never really had. you still loved the dark, “grunge” aesthetic of it, and had turned your account into a more mature, x-rated theme of what it once had been. you loved doing social media as your full time job for a variety of reasons, from the freedom it gave you to the opportunities.

perhaps your biggest “opportunity” was your fellow influencer and youtuber, matt. your relationship with matt was…complicated, to say the least. as much as you were a wholesome, loving duo on camera, you were filled with an almost primal need for each other off of it too. you and matt had never discussed a true, established relationship, mostly because you were both so young and so busy, and the rough, hard fucking in itself was enough to satisfy the needs in both of your lives.

your careers had consumed both of you as of late, dragging matt all over the country for the versus tour, and leaving you back in LA with a variety of brand deals to film and photo shoots to arrange. there was one in particular that you were heavily looking forward to, mostly because you knew that it would drag matt back to you, unable to help himself. in a fateful turn of events, you had been emailed about a calvin klein intimates shoot that would just so happen to drop on the day matt was back in LA for a show. in an effort to bring back the tumblr renaissance and the hold calvin klein had had during those days, you had insisted that the photos be posted to tumblr before any other social media platform.

matt: i’m back in la tn

you: oh i know ;)

matt: ??? huh

you: no reason. just focus on winning tonight :)

you smiled to yourself as you closed your text messages out and migrated over to your photo gallery. your manager had sent you the photos of the shoot to be posted this evening, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t planning on fucking with matt’s head using them. you had missed your fuck buddy, after all. the late night phone sex wasn’t the same as him in your bed, mumbling in your ear about how well you were taking it.

the photos from the shoot were of you in a gray calvin klein bralette with a matching thong. the photos had been toned with a sepia overlay, highlighting the curves of your breasts and hips. your hair fell back against your shoulders gracefully as your doe eyes stared up at the camera. the shots were nothing short of sexy, making you imagine how matt would react when he got the post notification. maybe he would be sitting backstage, getting ready to go on and trying to hide his growing boner both from his brothers and the fans, which only made you smile more.

you and matt continued to text back and forth for a while, until you suddenly stopped responding. this was part of your game with each other; to make the yearning so painful that it just made the sex more passionate. once you saw that it had hit the fifteen minute mark until matt was supposed to appear on stage, you hit ‘post’ on the tumblr draft of your photos that you had planned out earlier in the day. the caption, come over 💋, was directly aimed at matt, but no one else needed to know that. sure enough, less than one minute later, you received a text from the brunette that had your heart racing and your thighs clenching.

matt: come on, baby. what the fuck?

you smiled as you typed out your own message, imagining matt biting his lip and trying to conceal the growing tent in his pants as he studied the photos.

you: what?

matt: you know what

you: no i don’t

matt: that fucking post

you: it’s part of my job, matt. quit being ridiculous. have you not heard about tumblr girls making a comeback?

matt: watch it. i’m coming over and fucking that pretty pussy good tonight.

you grinned as you reread the message, knowing matt’s threats were never empty. you left the text on seen, knowing that it would only make matt more rough with you tonight. you kept a watchful eye on the clock as the minutes ticked by, formulating what you were going to do once he was here. as the time ticked towards the ending of the show, you slipped into the same set you had been wearing in the photos, pulling a large, red and black flannel around your shoulders to combat the chill of the evening. you were just pulling out a cup to make yourself a glass of whiskey when your phone buzzed with the message you’d been waiting to receive all evening.

matt: coming over

you knew what your and matt’s usual routine was, so you grabbed another cup from the cabinet and the bottle of whiskey, migrating over to the gray couch in your living room. you didn’t bother waiting for the brunette to start drinking. matt had a key to your apartment and would definitely make himself known when he arrived. you slowly sipped at the amber liquid, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks and in between your thighs as you thought about matt and how much you had missed the feeling of his skin on yours.

sure enough, the door swung open with a loud bang a few minutes later. in came matt, hair disheveled and still in his blue matthew jersey. his growing erection was obvious as he flopped onto the couch, lips immediately crashing into your own. matt’s hands were all over you as you devoured each other; in your hair, running across your hips, grabbing your ass.

“fuck, baby. i missed you.” he panted, leaning back against the couch as you passed him a drink.

“i missed you, matt,” you smiled softly, tucking one of his curls behind his ear. “how has tour been?”

matt took a large swig of whiskey, before placing the cup on the coffee table. “good. but not as good as you looked in those goddamn pictures.” he practically moaned.

“i noticed you have my post notifications on,” you teased, despite blushing at his words. “catching feelings, matthew?”

matt rubbed your bare thigh, scooting closer to you so that he could suckle on the sweet spot behind your ear. “do you know how hard it was?” he asked, leaving a hickey. “to have to go out on stage with my brothers and act normal when all i could think about were your tits and how i want to pound that little cunt to pieces? huh?”

you whined as matt continued to trail hickeys down your neck, mumbling things like “missed you so bad” and “gonna fuck you so hard” after each one. you two fell back against the soft cushions of the couch, matt holding you down by the hips as his lips caressed your neck, the curve of your collarbone, and the dip of your breasts. you went to reach for matt’s ringed fingers, only for him to smack your hand away.

“no,” matt said harshly, moving one hand from your hip to your throat. “tell me how fuckin’ bad you want it first,” he growled, squeezing your throat just enough to make the air catch in your lungs. “tell me you wanna get off on my fingers like a goddamn bitch in heat.”

you gasped for air as matt continued to squeeze, your arousal thumping through your veins. “p…please,” you whispered, eyes wide with lust as he continued to choke you just enough to get you going, but not enough to actually hurt you. “need your fingers.” you whined, looking up at him through your lashes.

“good girl.” matt hummed, alcohol hot on his breath as he moved his hands from your throat to practically rip your gray panties off.

with your friends with benefits arrangement, there was no time for gentle caressing or sweet nothings. matt began to finger you roughly, the cool metal of his rings brushing against your slick folds as he rubbed his thumb across your clit at a dizzying pace. he wasn’t stopping there, either. matt immediately thrust his middle and ring finger inside of you, pulling you closer to him. it had only been a few minutes, and the ache to orgasm was already building in your lower stomach.

“matt,” you wailed, nails gripping his back. “oh my god, matt,” tears began to roll down your face as the brunette continued to pleasure you. the combination of his fingers inside of you, the friction on your clit, and the added sensation of his rings were clouding everything in a lustful haze. “need to cum.” you sobbed.

“you’re fuckin’ crazy if you think you’re comin’ on my fingers instead of tongue.” he chuckled roughly.

with that, matt threw his head down and forced your thighs apart, burying his face in your pussy. he began to devour you like you were the last meal on earth and he was a starving man. his tongue ran across your slit and clit, before licking your hole. you had no choice but to let out little squeals and whimpers as pleasurable sensations attacked you from all angles. matt ran the flat of his tongue across your clit and you lost it, sobbing as your hands found his hair.

“matt, please,” you begged. “‘m gonna cum.”

your fuck buddy just nodded, still enjoying the taste of you on his tongue. you immediately took it as a sign to let go, releasing the tension that had been building in your stomach. you came all over matt’s tongue, panting and breathing heavily as your body shook from the pure force of your orgasm. matt pulled his head from between your thighs, licking his lips and fingers with a smirk, blue eyes hungrily grazing over your body that was still wrapped in the bra and flannel with your bare ass on display.

“you taste so goddamn good, you know that?” he asked, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear as you panted.

you smiled as matt pressed a kiss to your pubic bone, but it was clear that the brunette wasn’t done yet. matt slowly pulled the red and black material from your shoulders, smiling with more than just happiness. he had an intention and you could see it in the way he was toying with the fabric, eyes lighting up with lust. matt didn’t speak again until he had removed your calvin klein bra, leaving you completely exposed on the couch as he stared down at you.

“hands.” he said.

it was one word, but the command held an authoritative aire that had you thrusting your wrists to meet matt’s own. matt knew you better than practically anyone, which meant he knew all of your dirty little fantasies. knowing you had a thing for bondage, the brunette quickly and expertly bound your wrists together in the flannel, giving it a tight tug to make sure it was secure. your breath hitched at the pure filth of everything, but all you knew was that this alone was making your legs clench with need for another climax.

matt was straddling you on the couch, fully clothed, which just added to the dominance he had over you. you were completely naked and covered in blooming hickeys he had left earlier in the evening with your wrists bound together by a flannel. you truly looked like matt’s little cumslut, but you couldn’t find the decency in you to care anymore. you just knew that you were at his mercy and that you needed him. now.

the brunette could sense your urgency and decided to have a little ‘fun’ with you. matt took his time removing his shirt, allowing you to bask in the glory of him shirtless, all tanned skin and tattoos, but completely unable to do anything about it other than whimper and let out breathy moans. he moved onto his jeans next, painstakingly undoing his belt and throwing his pants to the side. the boy left his boxers on for the time being, teasing you as he stroked his cock through the plaid fabric.

“wish that was you, huh? strokin’ my dick and makin’ me feel good?” matt chuckled, moaning when he hit a particularly sensitive spot.

you whimpered and writhed against your bond. “need you in me, matt. please.” you whined.

finally, matt slid his boxers off and tossed them to the side, allowing his erection to finally spring free. his dick was practically touching his stomach, making your mouth run dry with a mixture of excitement and nerves. after so long apart and without truly fucking, you had forgotten just how big he was. matt climbed on top of you once more, rocking his hips back and forth on your own without actually riding you.

“beg for it. tell me how much you love my cock, baby girl.” matt groaned at the friction of your skin against his own, becoming harder by the second.

“i need you inside me. need your dick, matt.” you whimpered, the teasing growing straight to your nipples and cunt, making you almost ache with arousal.

“that’s right. good fuckin’ girl.”

without another word, matt slammed into you, making you take him to the hilt. you let out an involuntary scream at the feeling of suddenly being so full, your back arching against the couch cushions. the feeling of him inside you, bare and hard, was enough to push you to the brink of orgasm. your second always came faster than your first, and right now was no exception. matt was riding you at an ungodly pace, his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust as he straddled you.

“oh my god, baby,” matt moaned loudly. “i missed your wet little pussy. so tight, just for me.”

the filthiness of his speaking, combined with your bonds and the feeling of him fucking you was pushing you over the edge. you wanted to tangle your hands in matt’s hair or run your nails down his back, but instead you were unable to do anything that wasn’t taking his fucking like a slut. matt pressed down on the bulge in your stomach from being balls deep, a smirk on his face.

“you feel that, baby? feel you takin’ me like the cockslut you are?” he chuckled.

you whined as tears rolled down your face, bucking his hips up to meet his own. “matt, i…i–need to, please.” you wailed, unable to form coherent sentences in your intoxicated and lustful state.

“you gonna cum? gonna make me feel appreciated?” matt’s blue eyes scanned your face, enjoying the view that was you under him, tied up and sobbing.

“mhm!” you sobbed.

“then prove it.” he sneered, pressing on your stomach roughly again.

you didn’t need to be told twice. you immediately let your climax take over, your cunt clenching against matt’s cock. this caused the brunette to let out a string of curses as you came down from your high, your entire body shaking. he knew he was playing a risky game here, even though you were on the pill, but matt just loved fucking you bare more than anything in the world. the brunette quickly pulled out, and before you knew it, your stomach was covered in thick and warm, white ropes of matt’s cum.

he laid down beside you on the couch, panting heavily as you both came down from your shared highs. once your breathing had returned to semi-normal, matt kissed you roughly and undid your bonds, before rolling off the couch. without another word, he pulled his clothes on, straightening his hair. your fuck buddy kissed your forehead as he busied himself around your apartment, cleaning up the whiskey and cups and retrieving a warm washcloth to wipe down your body with.

once everything had been done, matt tucked you in with a blanket, kissing your forehead. “i gotta go. we’re driving up to san francisco tonight and i told nick and chris i would be back by two. i’ll see ya once the tour is over, yeah?”

you smiled sleepily as matt slipped out your front door and into the night. whereas you would’ve loved for the brunette to stay the night, you knew that you both had jobs to do and that right now, you were just ffriends with benefits and that was that. but as you drifted off to sleep, a warm feeling spread through your tummy that you and matt wouldn’t stay “just friends” for long.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

lilah yaps ⋆. 𐙚 ˚: wow i did not think there would be a day that y'all saw a lilah comeback but it's a crazy world we're living in! this was posted on my old blog over a year ago and it was the first fic i had truly blow up so i felt it was only right for this to be the first repost :(<3 i don't have a taglist right now, but i can make one if y'all want?? love you all and thank you for supporting the lilah comeback!!

#© bratzforchris #fics ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗#matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo imagines #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x you #sturniolo smut

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alinathinkstoomuch · 26 days ago

Text

CLOSET FULL OF NERVES

pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader summary: meeting your fbi boyfriend’s team? cue the outfit crisis, a bad blouse, and a mild spiral. good thing aaron knows exactly how to talk you down and remind you that being yourself is more than enough, based on this requesst. warnings: fluffff, brief porno discussion lol, aaron being sweet and protective word count: 1.1k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Meeting Hotch’s—Aaron’s, now—team shouldn’t have filled you with this much anxiety and yet here you were, engulfed by nerves, knee-deep in a closet implosion, and currently debating whether the sacred casual but cute look was code for jeans or a dress or a possible a tailored meltdown. Your people-pleasing radar was at its absolute peak. You’d changed outfits six times, debated redoing your hair twice, and spent far too long practicing a casual ‘hi’ in the mirror.

When Aaron mentioned drinks with the team at the start of the week, it had sounded breezy enough. Being around a bunch of slightly tipsy profilers (aka human lie detectors) couldn’t be that bad…right?

Well. You were now strongly reconsidering your earlier optimism.

You’d pieced together a mental scrapbook of them from the sidelines through Aaron’s end-of-day stories, Jack’s offhand dinner-table commentary, and the one time JJ had picked up Henry from a playdate and waved at you like she already knew your SAT scores.

But dating Aaron? That changed the math. This wasn’t idle curiosity anymore. This was entering the orbit of people who could, with startling ease, determine your attachment style and also what you were like in sixth grade. Especially now, since you weren’t just the nanny anymore—you were his person. And walking into a room full of highly perceptive people who loved him like family suddenly felt like the pressure had tripled.

You were still standing in front of the mirror, scrutinising your earrings when you heard your phone buzz.

Aaron: Leaving now. Should be there in 10.

You: Are we sure this is a good idea? I’m totally fine skipping this one. No pressure, no potential for public humiliation. Everyone wins.

Aaron: You’ll be fine, don’t stress. They’re going to like you.

You: But will they like-like me?

You wait. Longer than is reasonable for a man who never uses more than ten words per text.

Aaron: I like-like you.

It was unfair, really, how casually he could undo you with four words and a hyphen. You blinked at your reflection. Your hair was doing something vaguely hopeful and the earrings suddenly didn’t seem like they mattered all that much.

You hearted the text and figured you’d let him actually reverse out of the parking lot and into yours before you started catastrophizing again. You just needed to get through the evening. Smile. Make polite conversation. Don’t say anything that reveals your deeply repressed childhood fears or the fact that you still Google words you pretend to know.

After exactly ten minutes you heard a knock on your door.

You were, naturally, mid-blouse change, tangled in something with too many buttons and not enough leniency. So you grabbed your phone, thumbed out a quick It’s open, and tossed it onto the bed, which now looked like a fabric massacre had occurred.

From downstairs, his voice travelled up to your bedroom. “Please tell me you didn’t leave the door unlocked again.”

You groaned, loudly. “Hello to you too!”

“I’m serious,” Aaron called back. “You live alone, what if someone had walked in?”

You stepped into the hallway, barefoot and still adjusting your sleeves. “What if it was the tooth fairy? You ever consider that? Maybe I was hoping to get my rent covered.”

He appeared at the bottom of the stairs then, that furrow between his brows activated in full-blown dad mode. “You live alone in a house with multiple windows and no security system.”

“Yes, but I have a very scary FBI boyfriend who never smiles. All the nonexistent threats in this neighborhood know better than to mess with me.”

You flicked the bedroom light off, grabbed your phone and made your way downstairs, one hand on the railing, the other trying to discreetly tug your blouse into behaving. You narrowed your eyes at your allegedly serious, stoic boyfriend, who, for someone denying the existence of his own smile, was very clearly suppressing one right now.

“Is something funny?”

He shook his head, far too quickly. “No. Not at all. You just look... different.”

You stopped at the last step. “Different how?”

“Just…”

“Spit it out, Hotchner, or I swear I’ll continue leaving my doors unlocked.” Blackmail. It never lets you down.

“You don’t look very you. You look like…we’re going to a job interview.”

“Aaron!” you shrieked, giving his chest a shove.

He took it in stride, both hands raised in surrender, that damn half-smile still flirting with the corner of his mouth. “Honey, I know how you dress. And I would bet actual money that this blouse still has the tags on from when you panic-bought it today.”

“I wanted to make a good impression,” you groaned, tipping your head back. “Figured if I dressed normal enough, it might smooth over the whole ‘Hi, I’m slutting it up with your boss who also happens to be my boss because I’m his nanny’ thing. Which, if we’re being honest, sounds like the plot of a really bad porno.”

Aaron raised a brow. “Oh yeah? What do you know about pornos?”

You squinted at him, suspicious. “Is this a trap?”

“Just curious. You seemed oddly fluent in the premise.”

“I—okay, I was making a point. A colourful, exaggerated point.”

“That you’re in a porno.”

You sighed, ready to launch into a defensive monologue but Aaron stepped forward and caught your hands. Both of them. Like he’d done it a hundred times before and would keep doing it until your brain finally agreed you were safe.

“All jokes aside, I want you to be comfortable. And I want you to be you—the great, wonderful, endlessly patient, charming woman I fell in love with. Not some version you think will be more appealing to everyone else.”

You let a breath out.

“Now,” he continued, “if this blouse makes you feel confident and happy, then wear it. But what I don’t want—what I won’t let happen—is you walking in there thinking any of this is inappropriate, or scandalous, or something to be ashamed of.”

The inside of your cheek caught between your teeth. Not because you didn’t believe him, but because it was easier to chew on skin than emotion.

“Yes,” he added, “it was a little complicated at the start. We knew that. But I’d go through all of it again if it meant ending up here with you.”

There was something a little terrifying and kind of wonderful about being seen that clearly by someone who refused to look away. Your heart did this weird fluttery thing, like affection had turned into a full-body cramp.

“I hate this blouse,” you mumbled.

Aaron’s mouth twitched. “I suspected.”

“Do I have time to change?”

He checked his watch, then looked back at you. “Only if you tell me what pornos you’ve been watching in your spare time.”

You laughed, a chesty thing that felt borderline suffocating inside the godforsaken polyester trap that passed for a blouse on the receipt. “That’s blackmail.”

“Hm,” he hummed casually, “wonder where I got the idea from.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @keiminds @iyskgd @mystic-rox @insured-by-the-mafia @mggslover @khxna @starsmoonn @newavenger @star-crossed-sephie @tearykth @2dloveshp

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cressidagrey · 4 months ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 5: July 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of the death of a parent, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

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

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Just a heads-up. I have a girlfriend.

Jos: …And you’re only telling me now?

Max: Yes.

Jos: How long?

Max: Four months.

Jos: Jesus, Max. Who is she?

Max: Isabelle.

Jos: Isabelle who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc.

Jos:

Jos: LECLERC??

Max: Yes.

Jos: You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s sister?!

Max: Yes.

Jos: And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?

Max: Why would I?

Jos: Because she’s a Leclerc.

Max: And?

Jos: And that’s complicated.

Max: No, it’s really not.

Jos: Do her brothers know?

Max: No.

Jos: They’re going to lose their minds.

Max: Probably.

Jos: And you don’t care?

Max: Not really.

Jos: …You’re serious about her.

Max: I am.

Jos: Huh.

Max: That’s all you have to say?

Jos: What do you want me to say?

Max: I don’t know. I expected more yelling.

Jos: Would it change anything?

Max: No.

Jos: Exactly.

Jos: Don’t let her distract you.

Max: She’s not a distraction.

***

There was something to say about Isabelle Leclerc in her element.

High Heels clicking against the dark wood that now covered the floor of his penthouse (Walnut, as she had explained to him once, laid in a herringbone pattern), the cream dress she wore swishing around her calves, nearly the exact same colour as was on most of the walls (Max had realised that he was colour blind by the time she had shown him five different shades of cream, told him to pick one, and he had been certain that she was playing a practical joke on him because they all looked the exact same. Who knew that there was a different between Snow White, Skimmed Milk White, Shaded White, Strong White and New White?) and telling him all about the light fixtures that were now hung in the space.

She walked ahead of him, soft voiced, giving a quiet tour of the apartment she’s spent the last few months designing.

Max trailed behind her, hands in his pockets, watching her more than the rooms.

She was different here.

Not in a big, obvious way—Isabelle was always composed, always graceful—but here, in the space she had built from the ground up, she walked with ease. She fit into the light like she belonged to it. And the truth was, she did.

Isabelle stopped in the living room, where the late sunlight stretched across the wooden floors, and looked around.

“All that’s left is the furniture install,” she said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “It’ll be livable in a week or two.”

Max nodded, but didn’t answer right away.

Isabelle turned to him, mistaking his silence for something technical. “Unless there’s anything you want to change?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. It’s perfect.”

She gave him a small, pleased smile, and turned back to the windows. That’s when he said it.

“You should move in.”

She stilled.

“Belle.”

She looked back at him. Her smile didn’t vanish, but it wavered at the edges. “Max.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped closer, gentle, careful—because he knew that look on her face. It was the look she wore whenever he offered her something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to accept.

“You made this place feel like home,” he said. “Everything in it has your fingerprints on it. You already live in it, in every way except physically.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked around again—at the walls she’d chosen, the soft gold hardware, the faint echo in the emptiness.

“I don’t want to take up too much space,” she said finally, so quiet it hurt.

Max frowned. “I want you to take up space.”

She hesitated. He knew she would. She always thought twice before stepping forward, especially when it came to being wanted. He also knew that hesitation wasn’t about him—not really. It was about every time she’d been treated like an afterthought.

So he took a step back, and pulled out his phone.

She blinked. “What are you—”

“Exhibit A,” he said, tapping open a photo and turning it toward her. “Jimmy. Sitting by the front door. Waiting for you after you left last week.”

Isabelle’s lips twitched. “That’s just because I give him treats.”

“Exhibit B,” Max continued, swiping again. “Sassy. Nesting on the blanket you left on the couch. Will not accept substitutes.”

“Max…”

“And Exhibit C,” he said, putting the phone back into his pocket and walking over to her, eyes soft but unwavering. “Me. Also useless without you.”

She bit her lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Are you emotionally blackmailing me with your cats?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “And if this doesn’t work, I will start sending photos of Sassy looking depressed. I will weaponize her pout.”

She laughed, head dropping slightly as she shook it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he said. “And I’m not asking for something huge or scary. I just want you here. Where you already belong.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but smiling now.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

“I know,” he said. “But I’ll be here. So will Jimmy. And Sassy. And we’ll all be very supportive and dramatic about it.”

She laughed, but the sound was splintering around the edges.

“Are you sure?” Isabelle asked him, her voice shaky.

Max reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “I’m sure,” he said firmly. “But if you’re not ready, that’s okay. I just—” He exhaled, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I just want you to know I want this. I want you.”

She stepped into his arms then, wrapping hers around his waist, burying her face in his chest. And when she whispered, “I think I want to say yes,” he smiled so wide it made his cheeks ache.

And if Jimmy and Sassy got extra treats that night when she came over?

Well. They’d earned it.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max asked me to move in.

Isabelle: Like. Officially. Into the penthouse. With him.

Isabelle: I said yes.

Emilie: YOU SAID YES??? YES TO WHAT??

Isabelle: Max. The penthouse. The cats. All of it.

Emilie: AAAAAAAAAAAA

Emilie: I knew it. I KNEW he was going to ask. He’s been treating you like a man who wants joint bills and matching key hooks.

Isabelle: He was so calm about it. Like he’d already pictured me there. Like it was obvious.

Emilie: Because it is obvious. You designed that penthouse and made it a love letter to your own taste. You’ve already moved in emotionally. Time to do it physically.

Emilie: So when do we pack?

Isabelle: That’s… actually why I texted. Can you come help? I need moral support.

Emilie: Say less. I’ll be there with wine.

Isabelle: …perfect. Also, if I start backpedaling emotionally, please just throw a throw pillow at me.

Emilie: I’m bringing the heaviest one. You’re doing this, Belle. I am SO proud of you.

Isabelle: I’m scared. Like… what if I mess it up?

Emilie: You won’t. You don’t know how to be anything but steady and brilliant and thoughtful.

Emilie: And Max is completely in love with you.

Emilie: You’re building a life with someone who sees you.

Emilie: Not someone who just remembers you when they need a reservation booked.

Isabelle: That’s a little mean.

Emilie: I am your best friend. I am required to be mean on your behalf.

Emilie: Max loves you. He sees you. You get to have a gorgeous man AND a rooftop pool. This is the dream.

Emilie: Let’s pack your life, Belle. You’re going home.

***

Emilie Abadie had always believed that homes told stories.

Not just the curated kind you shared in design portfolios, or the kind Instagram filtered into perfection. The real ones. The stories that lived in cluttered drawers, forgotten shelves, and the boxes you avoided packing because they were full of things you didn’t want to explain.

Isabelle’s apartment told a quiet, thoughtful story—soft linens, deep greens and warm woods, books arranged by mood, not color. A ceramic cup collection that made no cohesive sense except to her. It was lived-in, and loved, but also… careful.

Emilie knew what careful looked like.

She’d watched Isabelle perfect the art of it for years.

Which was why it didn’t surprise her when, halfway through packing up the hallway cupboards, she found it. The collection of objects that could only be described as “well-meaning psychological warfare,” wrapped in tissue paper and reluctant affection.

Highlights included:

A desk plaque that said Think Like a Leader.

A collection of self help books.

A coffee mug that read Worlds Okayest Sister.

A heavy coffee table book about golf.

A Bluetooth speaker shaped like a race car that lit up in flashing LED colors.

A number of scented candles, all of them unburnt. All of them with the kind of sickly sweet scents that Emilie knew Isabelle would get headaches from.

A bright red umbrella. Ferrari merchandise.

A black pantsuit Isabelle had never worn and would never wear—tags still attached.

A Diet cookbook. Which pretty much exclusively featured recipes that involved red meat, which Isabelle never ate anyway.

A pair of trainers in a garish neon yellow. Two full size too big.

It was Isabelle Leclerc’s version of a family scrapbook.

Emilie didn’t say anything at first. Just sat cross-legged on the floor and started lining them up like museum artifacts. Like evidence. And it made her blood boil.

“You kept all of them,” Emilie finally said, not bothering to mask her disgust.

Isabelle, predictably, didn’t flinch. Just looked over from where she was folding dish towels and sighed. “Please don’t start.”

Emilie snorted. “I’m not starting. I’m documenting.”

Isabelle walked over and perched on the armrest of the couch, staring at the collection like someone facing down a polite ghost.

“They’re not trying to hurt me,” she said, because of course she did.

“They’re not trying to see you either,” Emilie finally replied.

God, they had trained her to make excuses for them so well.

And that was the thing about Isabelle.

Isabelle defended them. Always. Even when they ignored her. Even when they handed her a gift that said, in a thousand unspoken ways, we don’t know who you are, so here’s who we’d rather you be.

Emilie loved Isabelle for her grace. Respected her for her patience.

But sometimes she wanted to scream on her behalf.

Because Isabelle Leclerc was brilliant. Quietly, devastatingly brilliant.

She could sketch out a space and see a life inside it before anyone else could.

She knew how to listen, how to hold space, how to fill a room without taking it over.

And yet, her family treated her like the placeholder sibling.

The support system.

The “how lucky we are to have you manage our chaos” afterthought.

Emilie wanted to shake her sometimes.

“You’re allowed to admit it hurts,” she said, softer than she meant to.

Isabelle just hummed noncomittingly.

Emilie had watched this play out for years: birthdays where Isabelle got gifts that felt like HR perks, dinners where she was interrupted or talked over, family holidays where she played event planner and emotional buffer and never, not once, was asked what she wanted for herself.

And then Max Verstappen had shown up.

At first, Emilie had been skeptical. Who wouldn’t be? He was Max—F1 World Champion, known for being blunt to the point of rudeness.

But then… she saw the way Isabelle softened around him.

Or no—that wasn’t it.

Isabelle didn’t soften with Max. She just… relaxed.

Like for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to justify her existence. Max didn’t question her decisions, didn’t treat her like she was delicate or invisible. He watched her. Not with confusion, but with certainty. Like he already knew she was extraordinary.

And when he asked her to move in, Emilie saw the panic. But underneath it? The wonder.

The possibility of being seen. Fully. Without apology.

So as Emilie watched her best friend now—holding that terrible mug with a rueful smile, defending the people who had handed her metaphorical shrink-wrap year after year—she didn’t say the things she wanted to.

She didn’t say, They don’t deserve you.

She didn’t say, They never tried hard enough.

She didn’t even say, You don’t have to keep forgiving them just because it’s easier than facing the truth.

Instead, she handed Isabelle a roll of bubble wrap and said, “I’m glad you’re moving.”

Isabelle didn’t answer, just smiled faintly and kept folding.

But Emilie meant it. Not just because the apartment was too small for her, or too carefully arranged around other people’s expectations—but because Max had asked her to move in.

And Max—despite being the chaos of F1 incarnate—saw her.

He wasn’t perfect—God, no—but he made space for her. Real space.

And for someone like Isabelle, who had spent her whole life tucking herself into corners… that mattered.

Max didn’t just love her.

He made her feel unchallenged in her existence. Like it was safe to take up room. To bring her books and her silly teacups and her weird throw pillows and be.

Emilie looked around the apartment one last time. The walls felt like they were exhaling. Letting go.

And when Isabelle asked, softly, “Do you think I’ll miss it?”, Emilie didn’t hesitate.

“No,” she said. “You’ll be too busy building something better.”

With someone better.

And that made all the difference.

***

Isabelle didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The shopping trip was meant to be practical.

They had all the essentials, really—Max’s penthouse was fully furnished, a curated blend of sleek lines and soft warmth, every finish and fixture carefully chosen. By her. For him.

And now… for them.

Because Max had asked her to move in. And she’d said yes.

And suddenly, the things she used to walk past in shops—the towels, the sheets, the coffee mugs—meant something entirely different.

They weren’t just purchases.

They were choices.

Isabelle ran her fingers over the display of Egyptian cotton sheets, crisp and cloud-white, then turned to a soft beige set that made her think of sleepy mornings and Max’s warm skin under her fingertips. She held up the tag, inspected the thread count, and caught herself smiling.

It felt a little silly, how giddy she was. How young she felt. Like a teenager dreaming of her first apartment. But this was different. This wasn’t fantasy.

This was real.

She was going to live with him. Not just crash on weekends, not just brush her teeth beside his before tiptoeing out the next morning.

She would be there when he got home.

She would be there when he left.

She would be home.

That thought made her pause.

The nerves came creeping in—quiet but insistent.

Would she take up too much space? Would she somehow get in the way? What if she over-decorated, what if she made it feel less like his place?

What if she loved it more than she was allowed to?

She picked up towels next—thick ones, luxurious ones. One set in cream, one in a dusky grey-blue. Neutral. Calming. Shared.

Would Max care?

Probably not. He’d happily dry off with whatever was closest.

But Isabelle cared.

Because this wasn’t just shopping.

This was settling.

Belonging.

She carried the towels and duvet set to the counter and added a couple of throw pillows she hadn’t planned to buy, and still did, before she went to her favourite antique store.

The store smelled like old books, wood polish, and dried lavender. Isabelle had always loved it—the quiet hush of it, the way everything creaked slightly underfoot, how time seemed to fold in around the edges. Nothing here rushed. Nothing here demanded.

Which was why she came.

When she needed to think.

When she needed to feel like she was choosing something entirely her own.

The console table caught her eye almost immediately. Oak, mid-century, solid but delicate somehow—slim legs, warm finish, brass drawer pulls that looked like little leaves. It wasn’t flashy, but it was hers. In the way certain pieces just are.

She stood in front of it for a while, her hand brushing over the edge.

They had space for it. Max had said she could pick what she wanted. He meant it. He’d said things like it’s your home too and whatever makes it feel like us, but Isabelle still felt the pull of hesitation in her chest. A quiet anxiety that came not from Max—but from all the years of not quite being allowed to take up space.

But she wanted this one.

This table. This little symbol of her taste, her joy, her voice.

She turned to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take it.”

The words were quiet, but steady.

A few minutes later, she stood at the counter, scribbling her name on the delivery slip. The butterflies were still there—flapping somewhere between her ribs—but so was something else. Something lighter.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: So hypothetically… if someone were to have bought a few things for the apartment while you were gone… would that be a problem?

Max: Define “a few things.”

Isabelle: …Towels. Throw pillows. A vintage console table I may have emotionally imprinted on.

Max: Was it whispering to you in the store?

Isabelle: It was practically begging to live in our hallway.

Max: Then obviously you had no choice.

Isabelle: Exactly. Also, I got a really pretty ceramic tray for the kitchen island. You know, for keys. Or snacks.

Isabelle: You’ll love it. It’s very “Max doesn’t know what it’s for but agrees it looks nice.”

Max: My favorite kind of décor. You’re making this apartment ours. I love it.

Isabelle: You can thank me by letting me put the throw pillows I just found on the couch.

Max: Are the throw pillows neutral or secretly pink?

Isabelle: Neutral… ish. There’s texture. You’ll survive. I debated between “soft beige” and “almond stone.” I chose “soft beige”.

Max: That’s not even a real difference.

Isabelle: Says the man who can feel the difference between tire compounds while going 300 km/h.

Max: Touché.

Max: Buy anything you want. Cover the couch in throw pillows. I miss you and imagining you decorating makes it feel closer to coming home.

Isabelle: That was dangerously sweet.

Max: I’m in a hotel room with bad lighting and no you. I’m weak.

Isabelle: I’ll save you a spot on the couch. And possibly hide the pillows until you’ve emotionally adjusted.

Max: Deal. Now send me a photo of that tray. I need to know what I’ve agreed to.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@f1fashionista93: where is this shop?? asking for a friend (the friend is me)

↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s called Vintage Collection, at the Carré d’Or!

@emilie_abadie: You’re so lucky I wasn’t with you or that lion would be in my living room.

↳ @isabelleleclerc You would’ve named him and given him a tragic backstory. ↳ @emilie_abadie And he would’ve deserved it.

@paddockprincess: how is this not a painting???

@victoriaverstappen: “Something older than everyone in the room” is my new golden rule—thank you for this! ❤️

↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s such a good trick!

@/F1GossipQueen: You’ve inspired me to go antiquing this weekend. Hoping to find my own weird lion.

***

Max wasn’t sure when it hit him exactly—somewhere between unrolling a rug Isabelle had ordered and setting it gently under the coffee table, or watching her rearrange the spice drawer for the third time like she was memorizing her own existence.

She was here. She had moved in. But somehow… she hadn’t arrived yet.

He watched from the doorway as she unpacked a box labeled “Books + misc. (bedside stuff?)” in her neat handwriting. Her movements were precise. Careful. Like every item she placed might be quietly retracted if it took up too much space.

It wasn’t the way she moved in his life. With him, she was steady. Present. Laughing softly in the kitchen or curled up with Jimmy or Sassy, or leaning into his touch like she belonged there—which, to him, she did.

But this… this looked like someone trying not to leave a mark.

“Hey,” Max said softly, leaning in the doorway.

Isabelle glanced up. “Sorry. I’m taking over the dresser—if you want the top drawer back—”

“I don’t,” he said, crossing the room. “I want you to take all the drawers. And the shelves. And the bathroom counter.”

She looked at him warily, like she didn’t quite believe it.

Max reached for her hand. “You’re not a guest, Belle. You live here. I want to see your things around the place.”

Isabelle hesitated, fingers curling slightly in his. “I just… I’ve never had space before. Not really. And I don’t want to—”

“Take up too much room,” he finished for her. Gently.

She nodded, eyes down.

Max cupped her cheek, making her look up. “Take up all the room. Please. I’ve seen this place without you in it. It’s beautiful and cold.”

She huffed a soft laugh, like it surprised her. “I just didn’t want to… clutter it.”

“You’re not clutter,” he said firmly. “You’re the heart of it.”

He tugged her into his chest, arms wrapping around her tightly, and pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I want to trip over your shoes in the hallway,” he murmured. “I want your throw blankets on every surface. I want the picture of Blanche in the living room and that stuffed bunny from your childhood sitting next to my championship trophies.”

She buried her face in his chest, breathing in deeply. “You’re sure?”

“I’m certain,” Max whispered. “Make it yours. Make it ours.”

There was a long silence—warm, safe.

Then Isabelle pulled back slightly and smiled, small but real.

“Okay,” she said softly.

And just like that, the penthouse began to feel like home.

***

Isabelle hadn’t meant to hide it.

The roll-up keyboard wasn’t a secret. It was just… something small. Something she kept. Tucked away behind art books and a folded throw blanket. She’d placed it there quietly, the way she placed most of her things in this space—carefully. As if she were still trying to make sure she belonged.

So when she heard him call from the living room—“You didn’t tell me you had this”—her stomach fluttered.

Isabelle padded out of the bedroom, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, the sleeves of Max’s hoodie falling over her hands. He was crouched near the bookshelf, curiosity written across his face as he unzipped the worn canvas pouch she hadn’t touched in months.

The roll up keyboard. That sad little silicone thing she’d used in university apartments and rental flats, when the idea of owning a real piano had felt laughable.

“Oh,” she said, voice faintly embarrassed. “Right. That thing.”

Max looked up at her, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “You actually play on this?”

“I did,” she admitted, sinking onto the rug beside him. Her legs folded under her easily, like muscle memory. “When there wasn’t room for anything else.”

There was a time when she’d pulled that keyboard out just to feel normal for five minutes. Between assignments, between shifts, between everyone forgetting she existed.

“You’re full of surprises,” Max murmured, watching her fingers hover above the keys, not quite touching them.

Isabelle shrugged, soft. “Not really. We had a piano growing up. At the country house.”

He glanced at her. “Do you write music too? Like Charles?”

She blinked, surprised that Max knew that…but then she remembered that her brother had actually released some of his compositions. Of course, Max would know. “Do you?” Max asked again, gentler this time. Not pushing—inviting.

She shook her head. “No. I was never interested in writing anything new. I liked learning. Things people said were difficult. Pieces with layers. There’s something comforting about playing something that already exists. Like translating someone else’s thoughts.” Her voice dropped slightly. “It felt less scary than putting mine out there.”

Max watched her like he always did—closely, quietly, like he knew what she wasn’t saying.

“So you were more of a storyteller than a composer.”

She blinked. That was… accurate.

“It felt like less pressure,” she said. “I didn’t have to be brilliant. I just had to be present.”

And that, she thought, was the kind of safety she rarely felt in her family. But somehow, she found it here. In this penthouse she helped design. In this quiet space with the man who saw her entirely.

Max turned to glance at the empty corner by the window, where soft light spilled from the sconces she’d chosen herself. “We should get you a real piano.”

She looked at him quickly. “Max…”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m serious. You shouldn’t have to unroll your music out of a drawer. Not here. Not anymore.”

Her throat tightened. Not just at the gesture, but at what it meant. What he understood without her having to explain it.

“I don’t even know if I’d still be good,” she said quietly.

“I don’t care,” Max replied. “I just want to hear you play.”

She leaned in and kissed him—slow, grateful, still in disbelief that someone wanted this much of her. When she pulled away, her voice was soft and full of warmth.

“What kind?”

“You pick,” he said simply. “I’ll just be the guy who listens.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Serious question: Am I allowed to touch your trophies?

Max: …What?

Isabelle: Your F1 trophies. The actual ones. Like, are they sacred objects or can I move them?

Max: I’m sorry… what?

Isabelle: I want to move them into the built-in display we had made. The one with the custom lighting and matte black shelves you pretended not to care about but totally loved.

Max: I do love that wall.

Isabelle: It’s ready. And your trophies are going in. But I needed to check if you’re one of those people who’ll panic if I breathe too close to the 2021 Abu Dhabi trophy.

Max: What?? No. They’re trophies, not cursed artefacts.

Isabelle: You say that like it’s obvious.

Max: Why would it not be obvious??

Isabelle: Because Charles once lost his mind when I breathed too close to his karting trophies. Like—actual panic. Told me to “never touch the silver one from 2012,” because apparently my mortal fingerprints could destroy the legacy.

Isabelle: So I’m checking. Do I need gloves? Tongs? An FIA certification? Or can I just move them like a normal person?

Max: ...Your brother is completely insane.

Isabelle: So can I move your trophies? Dust them? Put them in the light-up cabinet I designed with my whole heart?

Max: You could build a pyramid out of them and I’d say thank you. They’re metal, not ancient relics. You don’t need ceremonial gloves.

Isabelle: Okay good. Because the lighting is chef’s kiss. I even have little engraved name plates.

Max: Touch whatever you want. Including me, when I get home.

Isabelle: Noted. Trophies first. You second.

Max: I’ll take it.

Max: Send me a photo when it’s done? I kind of love that you’re doing this. Feels like the trophies finally have a home too.

Isabelle: I’ll send you a whole slideshow. With dramatic lighting.

***

The flight back had been mostly quiet.

Well—quiet-ish. If you didn’t count the eighty-four times Lando had apologized for breaking Max’s trophy, or the part where he genuinely offered to ride in the luggage compartment as penance.

Now they were back in Monaco. The sun was doing that rich golden thing it did right before it sank into the sea, and Lando was trying very hard not to think about how he’d destroyed a priceless piece of Verstappen history.

Max had just unlocked the front door of his brand-new penthouse—the penthouse, the one Lando hadn’t seen yet—and turned back with a smirk.

“Come in,” Max said. “You can personally witness the replacement trophy making it home safely. Might help your guilt complex.”

Lando followed him in, dragging his emotional damage behind him like a suitcase. “Mate, I broke your winning trophy. They handed it to you and I just—smash. Right there on the podium.”

“Honestly, that thing fell apart like IKEA furniture,” Max said over his shoulder, already tossing his keys into a surprisingly stylish bowl. “That’s what they get for making a teapot the trophy.”

Lando barely heard him. His brain had short-circuited the moment he stepped into the apartment.

It was… insane.

Vaulted ceilings. Curved walls. Warm lighting that didn’t feel clinical or rich-guy sterile. It didn’t scream money, it whispered it, in like, six languages. And the view—the view—was like something out of a dream. Monaco glittered below them, golden and lazy, like it had been placed there just for Max.

Lando looked around the massive open space—sleek kitchen, moody wood floors, an actual staircase—and had to bite back a seriously?!

It looked like Max Verstappen lived in a Pinterest board for emotionally stable billionaires.

He flopped dramatically onto Max’s disturbingly soft couch. “Do you know how many people sent me the slow-mo of that moment? Like I wanted to be immortalized as the idiot who destroyed the winner’s trophy.”

Max snorted from the kitchen. “Gods, you’re worse than my girlfriend.”

Lando blinked. “Wait, what?”

Max poured two glasses of water like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Belle used to be terrified of touching my trophies. Wouldn’t even go near them. Her brother’s obsessed with his, told her once that she could ‘smudge the history’ by getting fingerprints on them.”

Lando stared. “Your what?”

Max, with the calm of a man not fully aware of the chaos he was about to cause, strolled past him. “My girlfriend.”

Lando’s entire brain short-circuited. "SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?"

Max shrugged. “About… four months?”

“FOUR MONTHS?” Lando shrieked, sitting up straight. “And I’m just now finding out?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“I’m your friend, Max!”

And then, as if the universe were determined to finish Lando off, the front door opened.

Lando turned.

In stepped Isabelle Leclerc.

Isabelle Leclerc in all her soft, gently glory. Wearing sunglasses on her head, a bag slung over one shoulder, in high heels and a pink dress… her expression soft and content in that way people were when they walked into a space that felt like home.

“Hey,” she said, smiling at Max. “I missed you. Did the box with the spare trophy arrive?”

Max pointed to the dining table. “It’s right there. Lando helped escort it home personally.”

Lando’s soul evacuated his body.

He turned to Max.

Then to Isabelle.

Then back to Max.

In a hoarse, horrified whisper, he said, “That’s Charles’ sister.”

Max, the absolute psychopath, just nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

Lando turned to Isabelle. “And you’re okay with this?”

She smirked. “Clearly.”

Lando turned back to Max, voice rising. “And Charles knows?”

Max popped a chip into his mouth. “No.”

Lando nearly fell off the couch. “HE DOESN’T KNOW?”

“We’re keeping it private,” Isabelle said, casually crossing her arms like she wasn’t detonating Lando’s entire worldview.

Lando laughed. Or maybe screamed. Or both. “You’re keeping it private?” He pointed at Max. “Does Victoria know?”

Max nodded. “Yes.”

“Sophie?”

“Yep.”

“Jos?”

“Yes.”

Lando stared, hands flailing. “So just to confirm—everyone in your family knows—”

“Right.”

“—and none of hers knows?”

“Correct.”

Lando dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay, cool. Cool cool cool. So when Charles finds out, do you want your funeral to be in the Netherlands or Monaco?”

Max rolled his eyes. “Charles isn’t going to kill me.”

“YES HE IS!” Lando turned to Isabelle. “He’s going to kill him!”

Isabelle just shrugged. “I’ll deal with him.”

Lando made a strangled noise. “You’ll deal with him? This is the worst idea Max has ever had!”

Max just grinned, maddeningly pleased with himself. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Lando pointed at him. “And I want no part in it! I’m officially removing myself from this entire situation!”

“Noted.”

“I’m serious, Max. When Charles comes at you with, like, a Ferrari spoiler, I was never here.”

Max smirked and held up his hands. “Understood.”

And yet somehow, Lando knew that when it all inevitably exploded… he’d still end up involved.

Because, apparently, this was his life now.

***

Max had survived media scrums, championship-deciding races, and Jos Verstappen's silence-with-a-side-of-glare disapproval—but nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to waiting for Emilie to step foot into the penthouse.

Isabelle’s Emilie.

The best friend. The sister-by-choice. The one person Isabelle never sugarcoated anything for. The one who’d once, according to Isabelle herself, told a former boyfriend, “I hope you fall down an escalator and land on your ego.”

Max was… a little afraid.

He wasn’t nervous often. His job didn’t allow for it. But now, standing in his own kitchen, hands resting on the marble countertop Isabelle had picked out, he was nervous.

Because Emilie was the kind of person who saw things clearly—and said them out loud. And Max wasn’t stupid. He knew that Isabelle’s past was littered with people who hadn’t protected her the way she deserved. Especially her family. Especially the ones who should have known better.

So Emilie was the gatekeeper.

And Max? He was the boy who had fallen in love with the girl she protected.

The intercom buzzed. Isabelle, barefoot and glowing, went to let her in.

Max exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, and silently promised the cats not to make this weird.

When the door opened, Emilie stepped in with a tote bag on one arm and sunglasses perched on her head like she belonged on the cover of “Best Friend With a Sharp Tongue Monthly.”

“Hi,” she said to Max, all easy charm and narrowed eyes.

“Hi,” he replied, with what he hoped was equal ease but probably came off a little like please don’t hate me.

Emilie looked around slowly. Took in the space. The light. The symmetry. The faint scent of lemon and clean wood. Then: “You let her pick the rug?”

Max blinked. “I mean… yes?”

Emilie turned to Isabelle. “He’s either deeply in love with you or very smart.”

Isabelle grinned. “Both.”

Max cleared his throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Emilie studied him for a beat. “Coffee?”

“Coming right up.”

He moved toward the machine, listening as Isabelle showed her around—explaining where things were, which parts of the design had been last-minute additions, what Max had insisted on and what she had picked out.

Max made her coffee exactly the way Isabelle had once told him Emilie liked it—strong, touch of oat milk, pinch of cinnamon—and slid it across the island as Emilie wandered in, Sassy having demanded Isabelle’s attention like she was prone to be doing.

Emilie took it, sipped, and raised her eyebrows. “Alright. You pass step one.”

“There are steps?” Max asked, mouth twitching.

“Oh, so many,” Emilie said. “But relax. You’re already ahead. You didn’t try to impress me with vintage wine or your Rolex.”

“I was going to offer cookies,” he admitted.

“Smart man.”

She took another slow sip, then set the mug down.

“Max,” she said, and her tone shifted—less playful now, more real. “You know she’s never done this before, right? Never let someone be her safe place. Never believed she could build something and live inside it, too.”

“I know,” Max said quietly.

Emilie studied him a moment longer.

“I don’t care that you’re a world champion,” she said. “I care that when she comes home, she gets to rest.”

Max nodded. “She does. That’s all I want. I don’t need her to fit into anything. I just want her to feel like she doesn’t have to be anything more than she is.”

Emilie stared at him.

Then, finally, she smiled. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

“Infinitely better,” she said. “But if you screw this up, I will make you regret it in very creative ways.”

Max raised a hand. “Understood.”

Isabelle returned to the kitchen then, breezy and radiant, unaware that Emilie had just conducted an emotional background check in under five minutes.

“I like him,” Emilie said, already helping herself to a cookie.

“Thank God,” Isabelle murmured, leaning into Max with a smile.

And Max—well, Max just exhaled for the first time in twenty minutes. Because if he had Emilie’s approval?

That meant he was doing something right.

Which mattered.

Because Isabelle?

She was everything worth getting right.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Need vacation recommendations.

Lando: Oh no.

Max: What?

Lando: This is about her, isn’t it?

Max: …So do you have suggestions or not?

Lando: I knew it.

Lando: Max, I know you and Isabelle are a thing.

Lando: But Charles doesn’t.

Lando: And I would like to stay alive.

Max: This has nothing to do with Charles.

Lando: It has everything to do with Charles.

Max: No, it has everything to do with Isabelle.

Lando: SAME THING.

Lando: I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be involved.

Max: I’m literally just asking for vacation recommendations.

Lando: And yet somehow, I will still end up suffering because of this.

Max: Lando.

Lando: FINE. Seychelles.

Max: That was fast.

Lando: Because I don’t want to talk about this any longer than I have to.

Lando: Seychelles is private, expensive, beautiful. Go there.

Max: Thanks.

Lando: Do not tell me anything else. I don’t want to know.

Max: Got it.

Lando: Seriously.

Max: Okay.

Lando: Like, if Charles finds out and demands to know what I knew—

Max: Then you knew nothing.

Lando: Exactly.

Max: Thanks, Lando.

Lando: I hate you.

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Stream starts, Max joins the call.

[Background reveals a brand-new sim room: sleek LED lighting, perfectly mounted curved monitors, and a back wall entirely dedicated to trophies, helmets, and framed photos—immaculately designed.]

Chat:

WAIT.

NEW ROOM??

WHERE TF IS HE

TROPHY WALL HELLO???

Bro has a museum behind him

That’s not the old sim room 😭

Chris Lulham: “Hold on, what is that behind you??”

Gianni Vecchio: “Is that a whole new background?? Did you move? Why do you look like you're in an actual Formula 1 museum?”

Luke Crane: “That is not the same white wall with the sad curtain.”

Chris: “Is that a trophy wall?? With lights?? WHY IS IT GLOWING.”

Gianni: “That’s a custom setup. Someone made that. You did not install LED strips yourself, Max.”

Max: glances around “Oh, yeah. I moved. Still in Monaco.”

Chris: “Wait, what?! Since when?”

Max: “Few weeks ago.” shrugs

Chat:

🚨 BREAKING NEWS: MAX VERSTAPPEN MOVED AND DIDN’T TELL US 🚨

Max casually dropping life updates like he’s talking about the weather.

Bro didn’t even hint at it???

NEW SIM ROOM???

OH MY GOD THE MONACO TROPHY IS ON A LITTLE TURNTABLE

Luke Crane: "Hold on, hold on—are we just glossing over this? You moved and didn’t tell us?"

Max: laughs "I don’t tell you guys everything."

Luke Crane: "Clearly."

Chris: "Okay, but like… why?"

Max: shrugs again "Just wanted a change."

Chat:

He’s so unserious about major life events.

“Just wanted a change” bro you’re in a whole new house.

Luke Crane: “Alright, when’s the housewarming party?"

Max: "Never."

Chris: "Figured."

Chat:

That was the fastest rejection ever.

LMAOO Max really said NOPE.

Someone check the Monaco real estate listings 😭😭😭

Chris: "Okay, but real question—do we at least get a tour?"

Max: “Hold on, check this out.”

[Max adjusts his camera slightly, reaching off-screen.]

[Trophy wall lighting shifts smoothly from warm white to deep racing red.]

Enzo Bonito: NO WAY.

Luke Bennett: Did you just change the color?

Max: It’s all programmed. RGB control. Motion sensors too. They dim when I leave the room.

Gianni: That’s actually ridiculous.

Max (grinning): Also acoustic panels. So no echo. And the mic quality’s better now too—right?

Luke Bennett: Sounds dangerously smooth, yeah. Honestly, this is a Bond villain layer disguised as a sim room.

Chat:

max literally lives in a batcave

this is a SIM LAIR

rich people don’t build houses they build race temples

bro’s sim room has mood lighting and better HVAC than my entire apartment

WHY DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A NETFLIX SET

Luke Bennett: Man, I feel like I should be wearing a tuxedo just to race you now.

Max (grinning): Anyway. Let’s race.

Chris: If my wheel breaks mid-race, I’m blaming this emotional damage.

Gianni: If I lose tonight, it’s because your RGB lighting intimidated me.

***

Isabelle always arrived on time for family dinner. With dessert, of course.

She always brought something. Homemade or picked up from her favorite patisserie. No one commented on it, but the plate was always clean by the end of the night.

Dinner was in full swing now, a chaotic medley of pasta, overlapping voices, and half-remembered updates from everyone’s life—except hers.

“So I told the media team we should change the graphic for next week,” Charles was saying, gesturing with his fork. “And they acted like I was speaking a different language.”

“Maybe they were,” Arthur said, grinning. “You barely speak one as it is.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “And you’re in F2, so calm down.”

“I’m in F2, not in last,” Arthur shot back.

“Boys,” Pascale said in a long-suffering tone. “Please. Eat.”

Isabelle had barely spoken since they sat down.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to contribute—she just never quite found the opening. Every time she tried, someone else jumped in louder, faster. She was used to it. It had been this way for most of her life.

Still, she tried.

“Oh,” she said lightly, when the conversation briefly turned toward travel. “I’ll be in Nice next week for a client install. Final stages of a boutique I’ve been working on for a few months.”

Charles barely looked up from his glass. “Interior stuff again?”

Isabelle smiled tightly. “Yes. It’s the final phase.”

“What are you installing, like… pillows?” Arthur asked, half-joking, half-serious.

“Furniture. Lighting. Custom cabinetry. Architectural finishes,” she replied, ticking them off calmly. “You know. The usual.”

“Right, right,” Lorenzo said, tone absent. “Pinterest, but expensive.”

Isabelle bit her tongue.

Hard.

She smiled again—her polite, polished, professional smile—and took a sip of her wine to swallow down everything she wanted to say.

No one asked more about the project. The conversation veered into Charles’ media schedule for the next race. No one circled back to Isabelle.

They never did.

Until, several minutes later, Arthur mentioned Max.

“Did you know he just finished renovating his place in Monaco?” Arthur said, gesturing with his fork. “Fully redone. It’s all over the sim racing forums—some insane setup.”

“Oh, yeah,” Charles added. “I saw it. Trophy wall, hidden screens, mood lighting. So over the top.”

“It’s not over the top,” Isabelle said, casually.

They all turned.

“I designed it.”

Silence. Actual silence.

Isabelle set down her fork and took another sip of wine, just to give them a moment to catch up.

Charles blinked. “You—what?”

“I was the lead interior architect on Max Verstappen’s penthouse,” she said, voice steady. “From layout to lighting to final finishes.”

Arthur’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Lorenzo frowned. “Like… the Max Verstappen?”

“No, Lorenzo, the other one,” Isabelle deadpanned.

Pascale blinked. “Well. That’s… quite something.”

“It was,” Isabelle said mildly. “A lot of work. High standards. Very involved client.”

…not really, but nobody needed to know that. Mostly Max had just let her do whatever she wanted.

“You never said anything,” Charles muttered, confused.

“You never asked,” she said, sweetly. “You thought I was just picking out pillows.”

No one had an answer for that.

And Isabelle didn’t try to change the topic. instead she just stood up, starting to clean up plates— graceful as ever.

“I’ll help clean,” she said, voice still perfectly polite. And then, with a final smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she added, “Let me know if you ever want help picking out throw pillows, though. I’m very good at that.”

***

The front door opened with a soft click, followed by the unmistakable rustle of paper shopping bags and the sound of someone toeing off their shoes with slightly more force than necessary.

Max looked up from the couch, one arm draped around Jimmy, who had fully claimed the throw blanket. “You’re back late.”

Isabelle stepped inside, arms full of muted-toned bags from an upscale decor shop near the port. She dropped them on the kitchen island with a sigh that sounded far too heavy for a casual stroll home.

“I stopped at—” she started, then waved vaguely at the bags. “—somewhere.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Shopping?”

“Frustration shopping,” she muttered, pulling off her coat and hanging it neatly by the door.

He got up slowly, padding barefoot across the floor to meet her. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she unpacked …something that looked like a seashell and a pretzel had a baby, a geometric candleholder she didn’t need, and a cushion cover in a color Max was pretty sure they used in the guest room.

“They laughed at my job,” she said finally, quiet but steady. “Again.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “What did they say?”

Isabelle didn’t look at him. She kept unpacking. “Arthur made a joke about installing pillows. Lorenzo called it Pinterest, but expensive.”

He let the silence hang, waiting.

“And then I told them,” she said, meeting his gaze now. “About the penthouse. The sim room. The trophy wall. All of it.”

Max stepped closer, brushing his fingers lightly against her hand. “Good.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she admitted, her voice dipping. “I didn’t want it to sound like name-dropping. But I just—snapped. I was so tired of biting my tongue.”

“You don’t have to bite your tongue,” Max said, his voice low and firm. “Not with them. Not with anyone.”

She looked up at him, eyes a little glossy but not crying. Not yet.

“I built something for you,” she said. “Something real. And they still treat me like I’m playing house with fabric swatches.”

Max reached behind her and gently tugged her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“They can’t see it because they don’t want to,” he murmured. “But I see you. Every detail, every decision, every part of this place that feels like home—you did that.”

Isabelle closed her eyes and let herself lean into him.

The silence was softer now. Safer.

After a beat, Max pulled back just enough to glance at the bags.

“...Please tell me that weird seashell thing isn’t going in the sim room.”

Isabelle laughed, a real one this time, even as she sniffled. “No promises.”

***

Quadrant Stream Transcript

Lando Norris: Okay, I’m in. Finally.

Max Fewtrell: Took you long enough. What’d you do, build a new rig?

Lando: Nah, I’m not Max Verstappen. I don’t have a personalised sim fortress with like… ambient lighting and a trophy shrine.

Max F: Bro, that room is insane. I saw a clip on TikTok, and I swear it looked like he was about to launch a space shuttle.

Lando : That’s because Isabelle did it.

Max F: …Isabelle who?

Lando: Isabelle Leclerc.

Max F (pauses): …As in… Charles Leclerc’s sister?

Lando: Mhm.

Chat:

LANDO WHAT

BACK UP

ISABELLE LECLERC DESIGNED MAX’S SIM ROOM???

Max F: Wait wait wait hold on. Max Verstappen’s sim room was designed by Isabelle Leclerc?

Lando: Yep.

Max F: Okay but like—can she do my room?

Lando: Have you got Max Verstappen money, mate?

Max F: …Right. So that’s a no.

Lando: That’s a hard no. She’s not out here doing LED lighting schemes for the boys on a Logitech G29.

Max F: Ouch. No, but seriously, that room looks like a race car museum had a baby with an interior design Pinterest board.

Lando: It’s ridiculous. He’s got like… hidden drawers, ambient color modes for quali, race, cooldown—mood lighting for his championship mood swings.

Max F: You’re telling me my man gets P1 and then sets the room to gold sparkle mode?

Lando: Wouldn’t even be surprised.

Max F: And Isabelle did all that?

Lando: Yeah. Interior architect. Like… architectural degree, portfolio, the works.

Max F: I’m gonna DM her my IKEA shopping list and see what happens.

Lando: All she’ll say is “please never contact me again.”

Max F: Worth it.

Chat:

“do you have max verstappen money” LMAO

lando fully spilling the tea again i love him

ISABELLE IS THE INTERIOR ARCHITECT???

makes so much sense now why it has taste

Max F: This stream just turned into an episode of MTV Cribs: F1 Edition and I’m emotionally unprepared.

Lando: You and me both, mate.

***

The rooftop club was loud—bass pulsing through glass walls, drinks flowing freely, and the scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Monaco glittered below, and the whole world above felt like it had hit pause: one final blowout before the second half, before the summer break.

Charles had been halfway through a conversation with Pierre when he heard it—faint, over the music, slipping in between thudding bass and the occasional shout of laughter.

French.

With a Monegasque accent.

He turned instinctively, blinking through the crowd.

Who the hell—

It was Max.

Max Verstappen.

Speaking fluent French.

Not just French—Monegasque-accented French. Clean. Polished. Lightly clipped consonants in the way Charles had grown up hearing around every market stall and café table. Max’s cadence had shifted too—not quite native, but not clumsy either.

Max was leaning slightly over the bar, talking to a bartender Charles recognized. His posture was relaxed, like it was normal. Like he’d done this a hundred times. His accent wasn’t perfect, but it was close—soft R’s, local cadence, the kind that didn’t come from a Duolingo app.

Charles couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

He didn’t even know Max spoke French.

Pierre elbowed him, confused. “What?”

Charles shook his head, blinking. “Is he speaking French?”

Pierre followed his gaze, did a double take, then frowned. “Oh. Huh.”

“Where the hell did he learn that?” Charles muttered.

“Don’t look at me,” Pierre said. “Last I checked he couldn’t even pronounce ‘quiche’ properly.”

Lando strolled up then, already laughing at something Oscar had said. “What’s going on?”

“Max is speaking French,” Charles said, still stunned.

Lando blinked. “Oh. Yeah, he does that now.”

“What do you mean now?”

Lando shrugged like it was obvious. “He’s been learning. Says it’s good for Monaco. And, you know with…” He trailed off.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “And?”

Lando opened his mouth to respond and then suddenly blanched. “Nothing! Just…I need another drink!” and off he went. Charles stared after him.

What was that about now?

Charles frowned deeper, watching Max accept his drink with a quiet merci, bonne soirée like it wasn’t the most confusing thing Charles had witnessed all summer.

It wasn’t just the French.

It was the accent. The ease.

Charles couldn’t figure out what bothered him more—that Max was speaking French… or that he was doing it like a local.

And somewhere in the back of his head, a quiet, suspicious thought began to form:

Why would Max Verstappen bother learning Monegasque-accented French?

1K notes · View notes

electricgg · 2 months ago

Text

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 7: Silver Spoons And Butter Knives, Living Hand To Mouth I’m Getting By

Masterlist Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 (Here!) / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 (Part 1) (Part 2) / Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of Bullying, Suicidal implications, Body harm, Body Horror

The concept of boarding school wasn’t as bad as people portray it.

A boarding school is an institution where students live on the premises while receiving formal instruction, essentially providing both lodging and meals. Unlike normal schools, boarding schools offer a residential experience, often encompassing a wider range of extracurricular activities and a sense of community.

At least, that’s the literal definition she found on the internet.

When Bobby (with whom she had exchanged phone numbers and yapped the whole weekend through text, and sent her way too many TikToks she didn’t really understand but found funny) had asked her if she was staying at the dorms so they could hang out after class, she suddenly found a ray of hope of getting away from the Waynes.

Which led her to do a thorough research on Wikipedia.

Gotham Academy has been a prestigious, private boarding school for Gotham’s elite. And anyone who could afford it, or had a scholarship.

Most members of the Wayne family had gone to the academy. Most of the said members were expelled or dropped out of it.

Including Bruce himself.

Which is why she was currently pissed off on a Monday morning as Alfred drove the younger members of the family to school.

“This is bullshit,” She muttered while pouting at the window, arms crossed and legs sprawled out in the passenger seat.

The butler gave her a pointed look, letting her know that she should behave. The young girl readjusted her sitting position with a grumble. Her glare followed the tall buildings and the people walking around the busy sidewalk, passing them by in a blur to those with normal eyesight.

Not for her, thought. Everything seemed so slow-paced today.

It was quite annoying. From the moment she woke up that morning, it had been like stepping into a slow-motion sequence. The curtains of her room moved oh so gently, it almost seemed like they were floating. The water from her shower had stopped for a few moments, and she could even count the drops of the stream that stood frozen in the air before she received a cold splash in the face that almost made her crack her head open again if she hadn’t hung onto the built-in shelves on the wall. Then, the gremlin at breakfast. He seemed to take his sweet time eating his French toast, which was almost disturbing to see how slow someone could chew on his food. It made her sick to the stomach remembering it.

They were short lapses of time. Didn’t last too long, but those moments still managed to unsettle her and keep her on the edge.

“I’m afraid this is something you will have to discuss with your father, my dear.” His voice took her away from her musings, returning her mind to the present.

‘Where was I? Oh, right,’ her anger returning once again.

Just when she thought she had found a way to escape from the suffocating manor, the family had once again meddled with her brilliant plans.

Apparently, she did not form part of the whole boarding school experience. (Well, Wayne didn’t)

Due to the many incidents involving her ‘siblings’ and ‘father’ at the school in their scholarly years, they had gained a rather infamous reputation. This led to taking away certain privileges when a member of the Wayne family was to be enrolled at the academy.

Said privileges were not being able to partake in staying at the dorms through the semester.

(aka. Waynes were banned from the academy dorms.)

“I don’t understand why a sudden need to stay in such facilities.” Damian retorted from his place in the backseat. Still giving her the stinkeye for taking the front seat first (she had taken off while yelling ‘shotgun’ through the halls, making Drake get up from his deep sleep and come out of his room to see what was happening with his sheets all tangled on his legs.)

“Pennyworth makes far better meals, and the beds haven’t been thoroughly cleaned in ages. That’s without mentioning having to share your personal space with a stranger who lacks manners.” That last part made her bite her tongue hard.

‘When the irony is ironing,’ She thought sarcastically.

“It’s all about the independence and socializing. Who doesn’t like talking to total strangers and getting to know them while also sharing a bathroom?” Her lips were curling in a grin, her tone letting on very clearly what she was referring to.

Damian tutted, harshly crossing his arms while glaring at her. Alfred simply sighed as he pulled through the metal front gate of the academy.

“Since when do you like socializing, Embarrassment?” He remarked on the nickname with a cold glare at the back of her seat.

And as if she had sensed it, she took off her seatbelt and turned half of her body to the back so she could face him directly. Both of their glares clashed with one another.

Alfred got out of the car to take out her school bag from the back of the car, wondering to himself if he was truly paid enough to deal with teenagers.

Damian was very much annoyed at her new attitude. It was getting on his nerves how she stood her ground and didn’t flatter. He couldn’t have missed this part of her. He was the son of the greatest detective in the world, and he took pride in his deduction skills. And he had deducted his sister from the first moment they met. Never, in a million years, would she have the courage to act like this. Too insecure. Too weak. Too scared.

She would have had to die and be reborn to be acting like this.

“Don’t act like you know me, Damian.” His name sounded like a curse in the making on her tongue. Her deep, dark eyes stared directly into his own, a glint of something akin to sardonic gone the moment she turned back on her seat and opened the car door.

“You don’t have the right to judge. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

With that, she stepped out and slammed the door shut, leaving him with words in his mouth.

He could only follow her stomping outside towards Alfred out of the corner of his eye, refusing to turn his face a single inch towards them. She seemed to mutter something to the older man, to whom he put a hand on her shoulder and spoke very gently.

Her eyes softened, and Damian couldn’t help but be put off by it.

He was well aware that she used grey contact lenses. She always wore them, no matter what. One would think she would sleep while wearing them, but he knew she wasn’t that stupid.

He never wondered why she used them, scraping it off as some odd fashing trend girls her age were into. They just were part of her and he went along with it. Never putting much thought into it.

Now, Damian was putting a lot of thought into it.

He had always known that he was an almost carbon copy of his father. Black hair, facial structure, etc. There was little doubt about his heritage and he took pride in it.

His half-sibling was another story. No matter how hard she tried to dress, act, talk, and move like them, she didn’t seem to fit in. The cold colors and heavy presence that were very characteristic of the Waynes didn’t suit her.

It had been obvious before, but now it was undeniable to Damian.

And it was all because of those damned eyes.

He wouldn’t dare to say it out loud, maybe just ponder it to himself, only in his thoughts, but Damian wanted her grey eyes back.

Those grey eyes that would crinkle in worry when he came back upset from a bad patrol night. Those grey eyes that would widen in excitement when she looked over his sketchbook and praised his skills. Those grey eyes that were full of softness and care, asking about how his day was at school.

…Maybe he wasn’t missing the grey. Not really.

‘It doesn’t make any sense.’ His mind hissed, making his frown deepen. ‘Why is this bothering me so much? She is just a nuisance and below-’

“Hey! Bobby! Over here!”

Her shout made Damian snap his head towards the car window with a snarl. Which slipped down slowly as he took in the scene happening outside.

She was waving her arm over her head quite fast towards someone. A guy who was smiling way too much for his taste (it almost made him turn away in disgust, but he fought against it), as he moved towards her with a jump in his walk. He looked like an overgrown golden retriever, wearing the academy uniform.

What happened next made Damian’s blood go cold and hot at the same time, his nails sinking into the fabric of his clothes, and his lips pressed tightly.

Because that guy dared to come close to his sister and pick her up in a hug while twirling her around.

Her bright laugh as she was put down, quickly jumping into a conversation with the big oaf while patting down her now wrinkly uniform, made his stomach twist into a feeling he couldn’t quite place yet.

The warmth in her eyes had Damian bite inside his cheek, chest tight as she began to walk away with the guy, with a quick goodbye to a smiling Alfred, who had begun to go inside the car and pull away from the school grounds.

The young boy’s stare didn’t move away from the pair. Not until he lost them out of sight due to the distance.

Who did that guy think he was?! Coming so close to her and acting so touchy with his sister.

Was he a friend? No way. She didn’t have any friends. He was sure.

Was he?

Was he a boyfriend? Ridiculous, there was no way she would have hidden something like that from the family. She wouldn’t.

…Would she?

What else had she been keeping quiet? What else didn’t he know about her? When had she changed? Had she even changed? Was she always like this and he just came to notice? When she grew tired of his prickly nature and sharp words? Did he lose her affection? Was he too late?

Did he lose her without even knowing?

‘No,’ He thought, fingers curled into fists by his side as he gave a glance to the smaller view of the academy through the window.

‘Something is wrong here.’

‘And I will find out.’

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

The academy was huge. It had halls over halls and stairs over stairs. An old smell stuck on the stone walls that gave the building an even more mystic flair, as if the gargoyle statues on every corner of the gate halls weren’t enough. It even had tall stained glass windows that gave a view of the huge campus: the main fountain, the track field, the outdoor gym, and many other places.

It was by pure miracle that she didn’t end up lost. But that was mostly because Bobby would drag her by the back of her school vest whenever she wandered off.

She was very thankful for that, since her ghost companion was not here today to guide her.

Wayne said that she would stay at the manor for the day, something along the lines of that she should experience the full school experience without her help (which screamed bullshit but she wasn’t going to fight her on that. If she was a ghost and had the choice to not go to school, she would also do the same) and trying to find any clues for their small quest.

So now, she was walking by herself for the first time at a school. So exciting, right?

“-and then the coach said I could play in the next game if someone hurts themselves. Which is not bad, but I don’t know. I don’t want anyone to get hurt just so I can prove myself as a player, y’know?”

“Aren’t you here because of a scholarship? Don’t you need to play to be able to stay here?” She asked the stressed boy, who had been talking about this for the past few minutes as they walked towards their third class of the day.

Bobby was from New York, and he had taken a sports scholarship in the academy this very year, so he could get into Gotham University to study accounting. Just like his father, who was a bank accountant back at home.

He formed part of the baseball school team and had been on the bench since he got inscribed into the academy.

Leading to his sudden stress of not having the chance to prove himself.

“Poor athletic performance can lead to losing the scholarship, so yeah. If I don’t play, I could lose it.” He quoted with his shoulders down, a deep sigh leaving his lungs as she patted his shoulder in a small show of support.

They had gotten along quite fast. Probably because Bobby had been the first open person with his thoughts and feelings since she woke up in that nasty pool.

No underhanded comments. No pushiness. No expectations. Always asking if what they were talking about was okay. If she was comfortable with anything.

It was a breath of fresh air, and she felt great hanging around him.

“What if I help you out with practice? I know jackshit about baseball, but I think I can throw some balls so you can practice swinging?” She offered with a shrug as they went into a half full classroom.

Bobby perked up with a huge smile and put an arm over her shoulder, slightly moving her side to side. “Please, and I will buy you ice cream every time after practice.”

That made her snort and shove him off of her playfully by pushing his face away with her hand, making him guaff and laugh.

“Personal space, jeez,” She said as he sat down on the second table and moved a chair back so she could sit beside him.

As he muttered his apologies, she couldn’t help but feel somebody’s stare on her back.

Just when she was gonna look over her shoulder, the bell rang, and everyone took their seats. Conversations quieted down as students began to pull out their books without a second thought.

Following everyone’s lead, she put out her history book with a sigh and kept her eyes downcast.

Now, there were many different stares and murmurs in her direction. From the corner of her eyes, she could see a few classmates whispering to each other or staring openly at her.

‘Yeah, that ain’t gonna fly,’ she thought, twisting her head to give her classmates a dead stare that had them gasping and looking in different directions while pretending they were busy with their phones or books.

“That’s weird,” Bobby’s voice took her away from her successful intimidation. “Professor Jones is usually here before any of us.”

The girl shrugged, leaning back on her chair while she brought one crossed leg on the seat as the other bounced against the floor. “Maybe they got stuck in traffic or somethin-”

The classroom door slammed open, taking all the attention of the students and making the room fall into silence.

A man stepped inside and closed the door behind him, his steps heavy as he walked towards the desk and put down his brown leather handbag on the chair and a pack of old-looking cigars inside one of cabinets.

He didn’t spare a single glance at them, picking up a piece of white chalk and beginning to write on the chalkboard.

He had a heavy build, like the ones that those wrestling guys on TV have, judging by how his shoulders and biceps stood out underneath his dark leather jacket. Some of the girls and a few other guys were staring intensely at his tight jeans, showing off his sculpted legs as well.

What stood out more for her was his hairstyle, spiked on both sides of his black hair.

Once he finished writing on the board, he clapped his hands to shake off the chalk on his palms and turned around with a grunt. A severe frown on his face as he looked over the quiet students.

“Your professor has taken a sudden leave for the rest of the semester.” His gruff tone had people straighten up and glup loudly.

Bobby exchanged a quick look of confusion and uncertainty with her.

This man didn’t look like the type of person to give a history class.

“You may call me Teach or Mr. Munroe. None of that formal stuff. Whoever calls me Professor will give ten laps on the track field, am I clear?” He almost snarled the last part.

Everyone nodded.

The man nodded and sat on the corner of the desk, crossing his arms. His tag necklace glinted with the movement as he pursed his lips in distaste once he saw the books sitting neatly on the desks.

“Now put those books away. We’re learning real history from now on.”

Some students muttered in confusion while a few others cheered as they put the books back in their bags. Bobby almost scrambled and rattled the desk as he took his book away, which made her snort a laugh and put her book down.

As the class continued, bustling with excitement over the new mysterious teacher and his unconventional method of teaching history, she had forgotten the odd stare she felt at the very beginning of class. It had simply slid off her mind.

In the back of the classroom, a guy with golden curls and clear eyes didn’t take his gaze off of her for the rest of the class.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Bruce wasn’t expecting any visits this early in the day.

He had recived plenty of calls from Dick, trying to check on him and see how the investigation on the case had been going but he didn’t pick them up. Tim had gone to stay at the Titans’ tower, claiming his sleep schedule was messed up and staying at the manor wasn’t helping keep him focused on the case (Bruce had the fleeting suspicion that Conner had something to do with that decision.)

He was more than sure that everyone was clear that he wanted to be left alone at the moment.

But Jason couldn’t give two fucks about what Bruce wanted.

The past Robin had parked his bike by the Batmobile, leaving his red helmet hanging by one of the handles of his vehicle. Sauntering towards the concentrated detective, who was sitting in front of the main computer and surrounded by many documents and files both on the screen and on paper.

“You look like shit.”

Bruce only switched the documents in his hands without lifting his head.

“Gordon told me about the bodies.” He answered, a cold tone in his voice.

Jason threw himself on the nearest chair, legs spread as he stared at Bruce’s back with a smug air around him.

“Jealous much?” He snarked. “That I got to them before you did?”

He was pushing his buttons.

Jason wanted to see how far he could get.

He was hoping for a fight, that way he could at least calm down the fury still running in his veins.

“You left them headless, and Gordon is still looking for their fingers, Jason.” Bruce hissed, finally turning around to glare at the guiltless man.

“They had it coming.”

“That was execution, Jason. It’s not how-”

“I ain’t one of your little robins, Bruce,” Jason retorted, leaning forward with his fists curling and gaze flashing green. “I did what you should have done the moment she was attacked.”

“There wasn’t enough proof yet-” The older man argued back, making Jason scoff and get up from the chair harshly.

The outlaw began to roam beneath his jacket, taking out crumbled files and dumping them over the keyboard of the computer. As soon as it hit the surface, pictures and documents fell out of it onto the ground and the desk.

“Take a look at your precious proof.”

Bruce took a moment before picking up a few of the pictures that had fallen on the floor. His jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened when he realized what the image showed.

It was from a surveillance camera. All the pictures were from different cameras around the city. The school grounds. The city parks. The mall.

And even from the abandoned public pool.

In all of the pictures, she was there. Getting pushed around. Harassed by the same four guys. He could recognize that they had the same uniform as her from the academy. Maybe seniors, since they easily towered over her.

The ones from the school contained different scenarios. Getting a phone flash shoved right in her face. Shoved down the stairs. Pushed on the school fountain. Yanked by her school bag or clothes. Getting too touchy with her, to the point of it being visibly rough.

One of the pictures showed her running in one of the parks, face blurred in panic as she looked over her shoulder at the boys trying to catch up to her.

Another one showed all five of them at the pool. Her on the ground, holding her head as it bled. Two of the boys were crouching down to hold her down while the others lifted a bloody brick.

He slammed the pictures down with a shuddering sigh. Throat tight, cold anger sinking from the tip of his fingers.

How long had this been going on? For how long had she been keeping this quiet? Why had she kept it quiet? Why didn’t she say something?

‘Had she said something? Did she say anything about it?’ His mind came on empty as many questions surfaced.

All those times he had turned her away, her knocks at his office door, and her silent voice asking if he was too busy. Always shutting her down, dreading to see her face and find old ghosts staring back at him.

Was it right there? Did she reach out just for him to turn her away?

Bruce felt a burning sensation behind his eyes.

“The documents are the transcripts of what I managed to get out of them on record.” Jason’s voice sounded far away.

Did she gather up the courage to come to him, and he gave her his back?

“Sick bastards, the lot of them,” Jason spat. “They had been tormenting her for years.”

Did she feel by herself in this? Nobody willing to listen? No one to trust?

“It went on from simply things. Spreading rumors about being into witchcraft and stuff. Saying that she would curse people with her bad luck if they came near her and odd shit like that to isolate her.”

How many times did he even talk to her? How many chances did he allow her to have to tell him about this?

“Then it moved to more physical stuff. Shoving, pushing, typical asshole stuff. Did you notice any bruises on her when she came from school?”

Bruises? What bruises? She was always wearing long sleeves, claiming it was too cold in the manor.

“You did notice, right? They said that it got ugly plenty of times.”

Long sleeves. Even when it was hot out. She always wore them. How could he never piece it together? How many bruises did she hide from Him?

“Bruce? Did you-”

His daughter. Bianca’s child. With long sleeves. Bruises. From that filth. How many? How many times was she hurt? How many times did he not notice? Gods, did she also- Had she also done it to herself? Had she felt there was no other way out of the lonesome existence he had put her into? That he was the one to inflict that on her? That would explain her current attitude. Her anger. Her glares. Her snarls. How could he ever blame her for acting out when it was all on him? Only himself to bla-

The sudden throbbing pain in his jaw snapped him out of his thoughts, making him stumble back as he looked at a fuming Jason with a lowered fist.

“No,” His glare was agitated, chest heaving, and teeth in a snarl. “You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself.”

Bruce took a sharp breath, his gaze lost as the sharpness of Jason’s words cut deep into his throat, making him unable to utter a word.

The younger man pointed a shaking finger at him in anger, taking steps closer towards the shocked man. “Either you fix this and admit you failed her, just like you failed me,”

Jason got up in his face, fist hitting against Bruce’s chest with a shuddering breath. Eyes blazing a toxic green, staring right into his grey ones.

“Or I will make sure that she turns out just like me.”

With that, Jason turned around and stomped to his bike. The engine roaring to life as he took off from the cave without giving him a single look back towards the currently shocked, quiet man.

Bruce then sank to the floor, hands tangled on his hair strands as he took deep breaths. Mind echoing with many words and questions.

But he could only choke out a few words to himself and the air.

“Oh, Bianca, I fucked it up to hell and back, didn’t I?…”

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

The piano room was too silent.

Ever since Cassandra set foot in the manor, the piano room had always been filled with contained noise. The keys echoing down the halls, a soft melody that made her skin embrace the foreign warmth of a ballad repeated over and over, day by day.

She hadn’t heard a single note in the past week.

It made the air in the manor heavy and constricted, the halls darker, and the silence almost unbearable.

Cassandra didn’t plan to pass by the piano room. Her feet just led her wandering steps towards the halfway-opened wooden door. The creaking made goosebumps break out on her skin.

The curtains were closed, and no natural light entered the room. Just a few lamps that flickered every once in a while and a very cold sensation covering her when she stepped inside.

Her legs guided her to the untouched piano. A hand passed over the worn keys, feeling a thin veil of dust under her fingertips.

A shard of guilt stabbed right through her stomach.

She had gotten exactly what she wanted…

Silence.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

Call it pettiness or whichever useless feeling people came up with, but Cassandra was done with all the noise that she made.

It's always the same song. The same melody. The same lyrics.

She was tired of it.

She stood by the door, staring directly at the young girl who didn’t seem to notice her as she continued to sing that ballad over and over.

“If I can’t reach you, let my song teach you,” the younger girl sang softly, eyes closed as her fingers played smoothly over the keys.

Cassandra clenched her teeth.

She wanted silence.

“All you need to keep our love alive,”

She was tired of her playing.

“If I can’t hold you,”

She was tired of her.

“Remember what I told y-”

“Could you keep it down?”

The girl startled, smashing the keys and making an awful sound. Both of them cringed at it.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” She tried to apologize with a stammer as she stood up, stumbling and fidgeting fingers.

But Cassandra didn’t let her finish.

“You don’t know any other songs?” she questioned.

“Not really. My mom only taught me this-”

“Then why play at all?” She didn’t understand. It was useless to know just one song on the piano. A waste of skill and talent, if she were honest. It didn’t make any sense.

The girl took a sharp breath, hands wringing with the hems of her sleeves and fingers. “It’s an important ballad. My mom used to say it was a protec-”

“It’s too loud. Keep it down.”

Cassandra didn’t care about the importance of the song. She just wanted silence. Her ears were ringing, and she could feel a headache coming on if she heard another keynote from the piano.

They stayed quiet for a moment. A slow nod from the younger girl was answer enough for her.

Cassandra turned around and left.

She had blessed silence for the rest of the day.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

That happened years ago. She still played the song, but kept the door closed and put heavy curtains to muffle some of the noise. It still managed to slip through, but Cassandra didn’t really care as much anymore. It had blended into the background noise of the manor.

It had become part of their daily life. Something that just fitted right in.

And now that it was gone, the absence of it had been loud.

Such a loud silence.

She didn’t like it.

Cassandra hummed to herself, looking around the room one last time before walking outside into the. Leaving the door open behind her.

Maybe she could ask her if she could play again after she came from school? It wouldn’t be too much to ask of her. It wasn’t like the younger girl had done a lot around the manor lately. Just stay in her room all day and night, only coming out to eat and talk with Alfred, and then just go back to her-

‘If I can’t reach you…’

Cassandra came to a full stop at the end of the hallway.

The piano played slowly inside the room.

‘Let my song teach you…’

Her chest became heavy. Throat tight, as if cold fingers wrapped themselves over her shoulders. A wet sensation was sinking through the fabric of her shirt, making shivers go down her spine.

The voice was like a whisper, only for her to hear.

“Am I too loud now?” Cold lips whispered in Cassandra’s ear.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra only managed to see a tangle of wet, dark hair and a bloodshot grey eye with blood dripping down a side of her deadly pale skin.

When she finally got the strength to turn completely around, the hall was quiet. Not a single echo or resonance of the keys was heard.

Cassandra patted herself down quickly, shaking away the sudden cold over her skin. She felt over her shoulders, trying to find any wet spots on her shoulder or near her ear and back.

There was no trace of it.

She left the hall quickly, deciding to put this on the back of her mind as a headache invaded her head.

The lights flickered in the piano room, the door creaking closed by itself.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

“I wasn’t expecting to like history that much.”

It was already past three in the afternoon, the classes had barely been over a few minutes ago.

But Bobby had already dragged her through the halls towards the baseball field so he could practice some pitching and bat swinging. As he had explained excitedly over lunch to her, shortly after Mr. Munroe’s class. It would be just like playing catch, but with some real damage on the side.

She could play catch! She remembered playing it with Billy before!

And with a white haired man.

And by herself, oddly enough…

“I guess Mr. Munroe just knows his stuff,” Bobby suggested, dodging a few students who walked in the opposite direction from them. He then grinned, “You could even say he lived through it with the way he talked about war stories.”

“He can’t be that old.”

“Just saying. I mean, how old could he be?” He quipped with a shrug.

She wheezed a short laugh. “Can’t be older than the Great Depression.”

Both of them were wheezing as they stumbled down the stairs, shoving and hitting each other on the arms and shoulders. That gained them a few odd looks, but they didn’t notice it at all. Too busy fighting to stay upright and keeping air in their lungs.

They made their way through the front doors of the school, taking the outside route but still inside the school grounds to the sports field.

“He has such a stern air around him, too. He kind of gives-”

“Please, don’t even go there.” She pleaded with a hiss. But Bobby only began to whisper loudly to her.

“Hey, everyone was looking at him like a piece of meat.”

“It doesn’t make it right.”

“Oh, please. You totally looked.”

“Did not.” She denied with red ears.

Bobby looked way too smug. “Liaaaarrrr.”

She shoved him, making him burst out laughing as she stomped faster and a couple of steps ahead of him, ready to take a corner.

To which she instantly froze on the spot with a wide-eyed look.

Bobby took notice of her sudden change, still laughing as he looked over her shoulder. “Hey, what’s-”

She quickly pushed him back until they were back to back with the corner wall, away from the view of the hall. Her hand gripping his vest with white knuckles as she looked carefully over the edge. Holding back her breath, cursing to hell and back the person standing by the front gate.

Dick Grayson was leaning against a expensive sports car, looking at his watch every five seconds when he wasn’t looking around the premises and between the groups of students walking around.

‘The fuck is he doing here?!’ She shouted in her head as she bit her tongue.

She had written to Alfred that she was going to stay for a longer time to hang out with Bobby. Why was the touchy asshole here? He was supposed to return to Bludhaven yesterday and give her some peace and tranquility!

“Um, you good?” Bobby muttered, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. She quickly let him go and apologized.

“Sorry,” she grumbled. “It’s my, ugh, brother.”

That last part was said between her teeth. Bobby frowned at that. “I guess you don’t get along, then?”

“Not exactly.” She remarked with a wince, giving a quick glance back towards the gate. He had moved closer.

That wasn’t good.

“We gotta be quick,” she urged, pushing Bobby back slowly as he let her guide him.

Before they could take off without catching too much attention, someone decided it was the right time to yell her ‘last name’.

“Wayne!”

The duo snapped their heads forward, towards the male voice that echoed through the hall. Her eye was twitching in annoyance.

A guy with golden curls and a snobbish air around him approached them with decision and fists curled in fists. He looked furious, and even then she could appreciate his handsome features.

He looked straight out of a magazine, to be completely honest.

“What the hell are you doing?” He hissed in her face, fuming.

If she weren’t in such a hurry, she would have given him a few choice words. But she really needed to run.

“Office hours are closed at the moment, sorry!” She stated, pulling Bobby deeper into the hall behind them. He looked with wide eyes between the three of them.

“Suddenly got a sense of humor?” The guy chided with a roll of eyes, following her steps forward. “Where have you been?! Did you forget about practice?! We have the damned recital in two weeks!”

“Listen,” she fretted, eyes bouncing around to make sure Dick wasn’t nearby. “Right now is not the time to discuss this. I gotta-”

“No, you and I made a deal.” He claimed with a hiss. “I help you with your recital and you-”

“Hun, what is going on here?”

The cold tone made the three teens look at the tight-smiling man who stood beside them. His arms crossed over his chest with his head tilted to the side, blue eyes staring directly at their hands.

Now that she noticed, the two boys had taken hold of her arms while standing between them.

It stayed quiet for a bit. Dick smile becoming tighter and tighter.

‘Fuuuuucckkk-’

“Who are your-”

She didn’t even let him finish. Her legs moved before she could even process it.

It all happened too fast.

She had taken off running, dragging with her the still startled boys down the hall and leaving Dick behind with the words in his mouth. The man also looked caught off guard, yelling after them as he began to run after them.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck-” she repeated over and over while Bobby and Goldielocks shouted at her.

“Unhand me! You’re ruining my shirt!”

“Take a left! Take a left!”

Without thinking about it too hard, she listened to Bobby and took a sharp left. Shoes squeaking as the three of them almost slammed against a poster board, before taking off again.

They took several turns, with mixed shouts and yells between all of them. Mostly with Bobby yelling directions and the other guy screaming in her ear about going too fast.

It all came to an end when all three of them ran over someone.

Well, more like they slammed solidly against someone and crashed to the ground.

They became a tangle of limbs and curses. Bobby was face-first on the ground, complaining about the heavy weight, trying to lift them off the ground but too tired to do so. The goldilocks was cursing while swinging his arms and legs around, flailing like a stray cat. And lastly, the young girl who lay over the two of them with a manic grin on her face and laughing to herself.

‘That felt soooo good!” She gushed as she laughed breathlessly.

It felt so right. Running like that felt so right. She had to do it again! Her heart was about to burst out in excitme-

A gruff grunt made all of them fall into silence. Three heads looking up with a gaping expression.

Mr. Munroe stood before them with a crushed cigar by his feet. An annoyed frown in his face that made them gulp at the same time.

“Drake. Worthington. Wayne.” The teens looked at each other with pale faces.

“Detention. Now.”

…That could have ended worse, to be honest.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Author's Note: The gangs all here! Finally got to introduce Maximoff's core friends! And so much happened in this chapter too! I had so much fun writting it, you guys have no idea. And logan is now in the plot ( I will shove my Storm x Wolverine agenda down your throats and YOU WILL LIKE IT-) Let me know what you guys liked, theorize or go and scream in the asks. I love reciving asks and answering them💖💖 Lots of love and hugs, GG✨

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