#I think I’m going to develope an obsession | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nyctoseraph · 20 days ago

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I SUDDENLY TRANSMIGRATED TO A BLOODY THRONE WAR NOVEL AND I CAN’T GO BACK!

Yandere Crown Prince Phainon x Fem Transmigrated Reader

WARNINGS: obsessive and manipulative behaviors, depictions of violence, blood, slight gore, death of minor characters, non-consensual affection, phainon is delusional, parallels to amphoreus' storyline which can be considered as spoilers. YANDERE/DARK CONTENT AHEAD, PROCEED WITH CAUTION. 11.2k words.

ALSO CONTAINS: Isekai/transmigration themes.

One of these days I’m gonna put myself on a silver platter and serve it to Phainon.

You typed in your phone, gushing to your friend about the new update from the novel both of you had been following lately.

The Era Nova. An action-thriller novel about a charming crown prince thrust into a bloody game of court and throne. The story follows how Phainon, the crown prince with a golden heart, will navigate the dangers of the messy palace life, and how he shall succeed to finally become the emperor of the kingdom.

You were absolutely smitten with Phainon. First and foremost, the author surely did their best job at hiring good artists for the illustrations, because damn did they make justice of the ‘charming and handsome’ part of Phainon's character. Secondly, the gripping scenes of Phainon finally seizing the power from his enemies might've done something to your brain.

[Blue eyes suddenly flashed golden as he raises his sword and lays waste inside the throne room. What used to be regal figures now lie like broken statues, the red on their backs bleed farther than their capes.

Ascending from the blood of past kings, the new emperor, Phainon, has arrived.]

The words of the novel still stuck to your mind like glue, are you wrong for thinking that scene is just,

So hot?

phainon looked so YUMMY in the ending scene like the mask and cloak??? hmmm yes, and he makes even blood look good. wtf ur so real for that tho, but the ending's kinda sad don't you think? he'll be left alone in the palace far away from his people oh-

Maybe it's the way Phainon’s character is brought into the story, but he's this kind-hearted prince who transformed into an imposing ruler. The way his character hardened and developed pulled in your heartstrings. He brings conflict to your emotions, on how you loved his radiant and princely side, but at the same time is swept off your feet by his blinding majesty.

Must be the reason why you loved reading this novel. It seems that the author did a great job of stringing you, the reader, into Phainon's emotions and inner world. It makes you wish for the success of his plans in the story, but it also pains you to see him change as a price.

affected by literal fucking words and pixels, please save me from era nova, why can't i just pick a fav and go??? why do i also have to feel for them like please leave me alone he just wanted to be an appraiser and live normally with his people, why'd they have to do him like that ikr, like noooo phainon my sweet baby :( he succeeded but at what cost? :((((

Phainon ascends to the throne, the end. You saw this coming from a mile away, but actually seeing something that's been a part of your daily life for months finally concluding did hurt you a bit. There's a pang of emptiness, ah, the feeling of finishing a book and never hearing from that world again.

Sucks.

You'll probably get over it and find a new thing to fixate on soon, but for now you'll lament Phainon’s fate and think about the damn novel for a few more hours.

well becoming an emperor so suddenly sounds kinda lonely so if he needs a princess by his side im just here 🙏 girl, you'll die from the court shenanigans alone lol oof yeah u right [are you willing to do that?] fuck yeah lol, all in for PHAINON [heh, come here then] ??? it's 4am rn tho

Don't wanna go out yet. You're supposed to type, but suddenly you felt the most splitting headache you ever had the misfortune to feel. Your vision goes blurry and suddenly, everything's so dark.

★

You woke up to the fluttering of soft…lace?

Opening your eyes, you are faced with the soft swishing of the lacy fabric hanging up on the bedposts. The fabric dancing in the air caresses your face, the gentle touch of lace rouses you further from sleep. Wait, bedposts?

Realizing the anomaly in your room, you stood up. Well, tried to do so. Because your head suddenly feels like it's groaning in pain and so do you.

“Oh no miss! Don't stand up too fast, your head injuries might worsen!”

A brown-haired lady wearing a black dress with white apron suddenly ushers towards you. Her face is frowning, filled with as much worry as her frantic voice has.

White apron… like a maid outfit.

You stilled, brain churning for the last bits of the previous night. For one, you are texting your friend about Era Nova, second is that they asked you to ‘come to them’ at such an ungodly hour, and then… and then what?

“Master! The lady has awoken!”

What happened last night?

Your head suddenly throbs in pain again, it's akin to a migraine that suddenly surprises you when you least expect it. The difference though from an ordinary migraine is that this one seems to carry something.

A lot of things, memories to be exact, actually.

You are the only daughter of the count of this area. You are currently in your estate at Okhema, and that you had a bad fall at… some market?

More and more flooded to your head, some crystal clear memories and some are fuzzy, something bathed in yellowing lights — childhood memories. It doesn't clear itself though, as if it's decided that those are not of importance.

“My daughter… how do you feel?”

A voice interrupts your train of thoughts. There enters a man seemingly in his late forties. He's wearing clothes that seem to be out of a theater play you watched back then. His tall stature exudes elegance, something out of a regency drama.

Where are you exactly?

You didn't speak, mind running in different directions, different explanations and reasonings for whatever absurdity you are currently in as of now. Are you kidnapped? Did you get drunk last night and wandered to a TV set? Why would they play along then if that's the case? Is this a new, untapped-by-science side effect of combined lack of sleep and caffeine overdose?

All of your hypothesis sounds like it was spoken by insanity itself. Why would this happen? Is this real? Dozens of questions floated around your mind until it was cleared away by the same voice.

“My dearest, we have investigated the entirety of Marmoreal market and found no signs of the carriage that hit you. I'm deeply sorry for this news, but don't worry, father is not going to stop looking for…”

Your ‘father’s’ voice droned in and out of your ear, his words seem to be mixing and swirling into your senses.

Except for one.

Marmoreal. Then you also remembered one of the information bits that flooded to your brain, Okhema. You were so distraught earlier that you didn't process the memories itself, the familiar places and names suddenly makes sense, finally tracing back to their origin.

The Era Nova.

Marmoreal is the center of Okhema’s trade, a place where half of the story convenes because Phainon frequents this place so much. The kingdom that hailed him as one of their crown princes is Okhema.

Maybe it was really insanity who penned these events unfolding to you right now.

“Master, excuse my interruption, but my lady seems to be in great pain earlier, she may not be ready for that conversation,” The woman who you first saw when you woke up warily said to the man beside you. In your memories, she is your lady in waiting.

“Right, of course, please take care of her and make sure she rests.”

The man leaves, the brown haired maid follows, telling you that she's going to fetch you soup and medicine.

Left alone in your thoughts, you only can look outside the window. Behind the branch where two songbirds are perched, singing a duet — lies the Marmoreal Palace, in front of your very own eyes.

Insanity, yes, this must be insanity.

There's no fucking way you just got isekai’d in your favorite novel.

★

Of all the things to read before your isekai trip, it had to be this dramatic thriller of a genre.

You sluggishly stood up after your maid left you with the soup and medicine. You walked towards an ornate mirror, something that looks like it belongs to a museum, not in a home.

With that in mind, you found out two things.

First is that your family is rich. Second is that despite being transmigrated into a fantasy, kingdom-themed novel, you still looked the same.

Yes, unfortunately, no waking up in the body of a pink-haired maiden with flawless skin and plump lips.

At least you're rich, right?

“Man, I wanna know what it feels like to have natural pink hair.” You sighed in front of your mirror. You do look a bit more radiant at least, as if you finally scrounged enough money to contact a dermatologist and do something about your eyebags.

Yes, yes, it might seem like you were just put on a dress for some play but at least your face looks clearer. A win is a win.

Going back, you repeatedly consider your family’s status. Rich and has a stable business? Then it is perfect. An unspoken rule in the isekai world is that, peace comes from not fucking around with the plot. It seems that you're in a lineage of businessmen, not royalty, so there's no reason for you to get tangled up in the bloody ‘court games’ that Era Nova is all about.

Gotta thank the plot for giving you some background on who you are in the story at least. Still, you've opted for pretending that you lost some of your memories, much to your family's horror — so that asking painfully obvious questions in case you forget something isn't too strange.

That, and also because you've seen this in many transmigration novels that you wanted to try it.

You probably should've stuck to something along the lines of romance or slice-of-life novels instead if you knew that this is going to happen.

All feels surreal, you never expected to experience being sent into the world of a novel. You thought isekai is just a fantasy genre you only read.

But alas, you're here now. There's no cameras or crew members revealing you're in a prank, a show, or something. It's been too long for that.

★

Crazy thought, but what if I try finding Phainon?

You suddenly think while you're in the bath, a pair of maids helping you scrub your body. It's been a few days since you got here. You did your best in adjusting, using the memories that were given to you and the books which, luckily, you can understand and read.

It also helps that you're proficient about The Era Nova back in the real world. You've been into forums and posts discussing the plot and the worldbuilding of this work. Save for the more innate traditions and customs, your knowledge about the events and how this kingdom came to be is more than enough for you to navigate in your daily life here.

In fact, you might be too proficient, because your butler let out a stray comment telling you that you have the potential to be a historian in the academy.

Your earlier thought about finding Phainon resurfaced again. Now that you think about it properly, it seems to be the stupidest idea you've made as of now.

No, no! Do not get involved with Phainon, he's the most direct, one-way ticket to the plot.

You didn't think further, instead you relaxed into the bath.

★

Thankfully, you have recovered. You think it's because your brain finally conjured all the memories it needed, hence your headaches had finally stopped.

Your father now also reluctantly lets you go outside again, but he strictly advises you to be careful, a long spiel of reminders and shoving at least two knights with you everywhere you go.

Wow, your family had knights.

Today, you're heading to the Marmoreal Market, where you're supposed to have been run over by a carriage before. You shivered at the thought, although nothing concrete came into mind when you tried remembering it.

Maybe it's mercy, who wants to remember that kind of pain?

Your carriage moves along the cobblestones. Estates, parks, ornate fountains and rows of wooden stalls pass by your window. Straight out of a fairytale kingdom. You couldn't believe your eyes, your heart was pounding. It's real, you're really here.

You only went out to have a closer look at the world you got thrown into. You knew what it's like in the novel, but seeing it in person is a whole ‘nother experience that cannot be replicated.

Today, you're going to investigate, but you guess it wouldn't hurt to explore Okhema too.

★

It's unfortunate that you only have two feet and can only go in a single direction at a time when the Marmoreal Market has a dozen pathways and shops calling your attention.

It's vastly different from the real world, that's for sure.

The colorful tapestries draped into the rooftops of each store weave a grand picture to your eyes. The goods displayed felt magical, even what's supposed to be simple bread sold in the west area looks like it's glazed in gold and the dresses hanging in the southern part all have intricate stitching that make the fabric feel alive.

Your eyes are twinkling in wonder. It felt like you were a kid again in an amusement park, the excitement on each turn of your head palpable. You took advantage of your sizable allowance and picked pastries and trinkets that interest you, those that seem otherworldly that you'll probably never see again once you go back.

Right, what about going back to the real world?

Magic exists in the story of The Era Nova. One of the shops here sells magical items. It's your main objective for the day. The concept of other worlds could still be seen as strange, but it's worth a shot, you think.

When you finally reach the shop, it's unassuming at first, only a crooked wooden signage and an old wind chime greet you when you lay your eyes on its facade, but what's inside is completely different.

Rows and rows of shelves filled with various jars and knick-knacks welcomed you. It's like you stepped into the set of Alice in Wonderland. The line of shelves leads to a counter, a single woman faces you, her little corner filled with hanging plants and more trinkets.

The woman on the counter only stares at you. At first you think it's strange, but remembering that you're inside a novel cuts off that thought. Maybe it's normal here. In most novels, characters that have to do something with magic tend to be a bit mysterious and quirky anyway.

You continued browsing, eyes looking for strange artifacts that could be connected to how you can go home. It feels like a shot in the dark as you have no idea what could be considered ‘a strange artifact’ because all of these things are foreign to you.

As you collect your courage to just straight up ask the bizarre questions of ‘portals’ and ‘other worlds’ to the woman on the counter, a flicker catches your attention.

A hand mirror, it's embellished with small golden suns and silver moons on its frame. The handle is just the same, with a bigger sun and moon eclipsing at the center.

But the design isn't what catches your attention, it's what's within the mirror itself. Because instead of reflecting the shop’s interior — it's reflecting the inside of your real world bedroom instead.

You nearly jumped towards the glass display it's being held in. The woman on the counter stares at you before giving a somewhat pitied look.

“It's a great piece, but unfortunately that's reserved for a special customer.”

Your heart drops at her statement. No, no way, this could be the key to going home. You're going to have this one, even if you have to put trade offers that are disadvantageous to you. As you were about to open your mouth to argue, you were interrupted by a chime.

“Lord Phainon, are you here for your reservation?”

“Yes, thank you for keeping it for me.” A man — no Phainon, walks into the counter. If your heart dropped earlier, it's now currently digging itself lower than the ground. Of all people, it just had to be him.

The woman walks past you and into the glass display. She grabs the mirror and heads into a door hidden by plants. This leaves you awkwardly standing beside the Phainon.

“It's rare to see other customers here, I'm starting to think that I’m the only one who knows of this place honestly,” Phainon casually starts off. You shouldn't be surprised at his friendly demeanor as you've read about it a thousand times already, but that friendliness directed to you makes your heart race at a dizzying speed.

Snow-white hair that's slightly tousled, the striking blue eyes, like it's twinkling as he smiles. His tall stature is more obvious due to the small space but his stance is relaxed as he watches over you, the differences in your height just perfect enough to display the golden sun on his neck at your eye level. There's no denying, it's really Phainon in the flesh, and the novel did not lie, he's the most charming and radiant person you've seen in the entire time you're here.

Oh dear, he's so beautiful.

You would've gushed about him more if it weren't for the silence that's hanging over you and the current situation about that mirror.

“Ahh… yeah this store is… really interesting!” The response came as awkward as you can imagine, although Phainon didn't seem to mind as he chuckled and continued the conversation.

“I know, right? The shop’s filled with so many antiques and magical devices that I couldn't imagine how long it would take to appraise them all, they seem endless and that's what draws me here,” His tone is cheery, a smile spreading across his face.

You nearly forgot that Phainon has a hobby of collecting antiques and appraising them.

The lady comes out of the room carrying a box — presumably the mirror with your room in it inside. She hands the box to Phainon, but her stare never leaves you.

“Miss if you'd like, we have more hand mirrors and other displays-”

“Oh, is the lady over here interested in this mirror too?” Phainon suddenly interrupts the lady, who answers his question with a nod.

“Actually… I really wanted to check this specific mirror,” you softly said, might as well whisper with how quiet it went out of your mouth.

“My, I didn't expect to make a lady sad today. Unfortunately, I did reserve this a week ago… and I’m kind of expecting this piece — but! If you'd like, you can join me in appraising this, you said you wanted to see it closely right?” He offers, his smile widens as he turns to you, seemingly proud of his solution.

Oh no, he has such a nice smile.

Who could say no to that?

You take his offer.

★

In the first place, why do you still want to go home?

You woke up in a world filled with magic and whimsy, a world that looks like it has your dreams for its foundation. From a fantasy novel to a daily occurence.

So why?

Maybe it's because despite being physically here, you never really belonged. The monotonous voice that calls out to your ‘parents’, the practiced greetings, and the feeling of disconnect from your very self.

It's like you're just playing a role.

A role you cannot take seriously. Because back there, you have a life, a pretty boring one but it's yours. You're wondering if your cat is fed back home, you're thinking about your friend who wanted to meet up that day, and is your family worried? What about your real body? And your phone.

Oh you miss the glorious internet even for all its flaws. Maybe you wouldn't be as lost here if search engines existed.

The thoughts barrage your supposed peace of mind again, which is why you broke your promise of not getting involved with Phainon.

You need to see that damned mirror.

Isn't it funny how things are progressing just like an actual isekai novel? Because you do remember a few titles that had the protagonist promising to stray themselves off of the plot only to get plunged right in the middle of it moments later.

You mentally swatted the thought.

Because unlike the romance novels you've seen, the main driving force of this story is violence and revenge. Phainon succeeded in the story by removing all that tried stopping him. If you make a mistake — get too entangled, you might just get yourself extremely hurt.

There's a hypothesis that if you were to die in an isekai, your soul might just go back to reality. It's a hypothesis that you wish to not prove by looking for alternative paths instead, but if all comes crashing down, you'd rather have your death not by a weapon.

But… there's the alternative already right? Maybe getting a bit involved with the main character is a small price to pay for that. If the mirror proves to be the way of going home, then your involvement with Phainon would have no way of going any further.

So here you are, meeting the very man himself. The Sun of Okhema and the star of The Era Nova, Phainon.

You're not one for lying to yourself, you're a little too excited about seeing Phainon again. He’s totally your type, and if you're as headstrong as those female leads in isekai, you might've even risked it for him.

Well, you're not, and you want to go home now.

“Over here, my lady!” A loud voice beckoned you. With how cheery it sounded, you knew it's definitely Phainon even without looking.

He's wearing casual attire, too casual. White dress shirt that’s a little too sheer, and plain black slacks that go straight down to his leather shoes that's studded with small golden bits on its straps (which you found out are small suns as you walk closer to him). For all the straightforwardness of his outfit, the black choker that wraps around his neck stands out.

You see, you have no qualms about his clothing choices, but the sheer fabric is quite literally framing his muscles to all its glory and you’re a teeny tiny bit flustered. The choker isn't helpful either, as that leads your stare on his neck and jawline instead.

Ah self, pardon my bullshit just this once, not everyday you see the man of your dreams.

You swallow your embarrassment and approach him. You've opted to just a simple wave, but Phainon had other plans — he grabs your waving hand gently kisses it, his eyes never leaving you.

Well, shit.

“Oh? Was that too direct? Apologies, it's a common courtesy here so I just got used to it,” Phainon suddenly retracts himself when he sees your half open mouth.

“No, no, it's fine! Don't worry about it,” You responded almost too quickly, “Anyways, so…”

“The mirror, yes?”

“Yes, yes, the mirror! Can I have a look at it?” Now that you listen closely, it seems weird that you're so eager to ask for someone else’s personal belongings, but for the sake of your trip back home, you're willing to just swallow your pride for now.

“Hmm… no?” Phainon playfully answers, the smile on his face growing.

“Ah?” You could only utter that syllable. Did he finally catch on how weird this entire thing is?

“What I mean is not yet, we have to appraise it first.”

You could only stare at him dumbfounded before laughing it off. Phainon has a hobby of appraising antiques, this is one of his most highlighted quirks in the novel as he wishes to finally break free from his royal duties and work as a full-time appraiser.

Unfortunately, he has to let go of that dream after bearing the crown in the ending.

So as an avid reader and a fan of Phainon, you just let him talk your ear off about the intricate carvings of the mirrors and what tool could have been used in making them.

Just this once Phainon, because in the upcoming years, you'll have bigger worries than telling me the approximate age of this hand mirror.

You smile at how enthusiastic his voice sounded, but as he got into explaining the mirror itself, the entire thing started to feel off.

The mirror, which showed you your old bedroom, now suddenly feels… too normal. Plain. Nothing.

Back in the shop, it's eye-catching. Not only because it showed your real world, but also because the object itself seemed to be calling out your attention.

But right now, as Phainon traces his fingers on the embellished grooves, it feels nothing, like the magic sucked out of it. The suns and moons are now just ordinary embossing on the thing’s surface.

You and Phainon are currently sitting on a bench just right outside the palace. The two of you might've sunk too deep in conversation that the lamp posts that towers you are already lit up. The skies are blurring into orange blue tones.

“Oops, I got carried away. But I hope the lady is satisfied with my appraisal? Hopefully I was able to give you the closest look to it.”

Phainon moves closer to you, before gently putting the hand mirror to your lap.

“It's yours now, a gift, you're the only one who listened this long,” He grins, before standing up and offering his hand, “It's nightfall now, so I will walk you to your carriage.”

The two of you walked across the streets that's starting to liven up. Stalls are being set, with vendors hanging up lights and signages. The kids are running around, the adults sighing behind them. It seems like a bazaar is being set up.

A bazaar?

[As night befalls, the festivities rose. In between the hanging lights and the rows of wooden stalls, lies a plot turned against Phainon.

The assassin waits, a rifle at hand. The people flow until they fill the crevices of the bazaar. In the mind of the hunter, a flock of panicked sheep will cover the fallen prey long enough for him to get away.]

“Fuck was that today?” You whispered to yourself, which earned a curious look from Phainon.

Assassinations. This is what you're talking about as danger and Phainon go hand in hand. Of course, one less royal is one less contestant to the crown.

And now, you might've gotten yourself involved at just the perfect timing to be right beside him when he's supposed to be shot from above.

Phainon did survive this in the novel, but you're not quite sure if you would. The two of you are heading closer to the bazaar when you decide to do your last-ditch effort at distracting him.

You ran towards a little girl selling flowers and bought whatever flower catches your eye, it so happens to be a bunch of hyacinths.

You didn't even collect your change from the girl when you walked back to Phainon and handed him the flowers. “Uhh.. I just wanted to give these to you, thanks for today, Phainon!”

Right, he wanted to buy flowers in the bazaar that day.

“Oh and also, let's just take a detour, the bazaar lights kinda make me dizzy… unless you need to buy something there?”

“No, I don't need anything… thank you too.” Phainon answered. Thank god it worked.

Right in front of you, Phainon is smiling softly, staring at the bunch of hyacinths that are now in his hands. He has the prettiest smile, wish he could keep that.

As the two of you walked to your carriage, it started to slowly sink in that maybe Phainon is not just a character, at least not right now, because that smile felt real.

You hope the assassin gets tired of waiting.

★

When you sat down in the carriage to collect your thoughts, you noticed a few things that were a bit wrong.

In the flurry of your thoughts and emotions earlier, there's one thing you'd miss — the honorifics. Despite him being a complete chatterbox, he's still a prince, and never once in your entire conversation had you referred to him as such.

Oh god, does he now think I’m disregarding his status like the other nobles and royals that are against him?

You've known that your family are businessmen, but you only recently found out that you're prominent ones. Your nobility goes far and wide in Okhema, your family's influence in trade could certainly be used as leverage to the likes of Phainon.

Oh no, I hope I’m not on his hitlist yet, I didn't mean to disrespect him.

Now that you mention it, you might've acted suspicious because of your fixation on that mirror. And now, you also feel bad for trying to claim something he technically owns, knowing his background in the story.

You comforted yourself with the fact that it's his idea to meet like this though, also his idea to let go of the antique, but you now can only hope that it's a genuine meeting and not some sort of test for the weird daughter of the biggest business man in the city.

Right, he did give me the mirror.

You propped up the thing that led you in this situation. An antiquated mirror, which now should've shown you your real world, if your hypothesis was right.

But just like earlier, it doesn't even feel magical or even interesting, as if the mystique that led you to it was knocked straight out of it.

“Fuck, don't tell me that I was only hallucinating back when I was in that shop… to think that I might've made Phainon uncomfortable and pressured him into giving this up, ugh.” You buried your face in your palms, sighing deeply.

A thought popped into your head — the Academy. The Grove of Scholars do have a few mages in their ranks, they're the teachers of magic in this world. Maybe they could help you identify whatever's in the mirror.

Alright, let's make use of this thing, sorry Phainon, but it's a gift now isn't it?

★

The academy in this world is bizarre.

It sits atop of a ginormous tree that towers the entire field. Its branches envelop the surrounding area, in them, different buildings are encased, which can be accessed by the winding pathways that wrap around the trunk.

The tree isn't really the most bizzare thing to you though, it's the stairs. There's special devices scattered that could bring you to the various facilities of the grove, but stairs are still the predominant way of moving around here.

“I'm not built for this thing… is this why they always make the art for those scholar characters bulky despite them claiming they're feeble?” You sat down on one of the staircases. You checked back on your bag and saw that the hand mirror was still there, you breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you new here, miss? Haha, yes the grove has a lot of stairs, but once you enroll here, you'll get used to it!” A bubbly voice suddenly comes beside you.

“Oh, hello! Yes… it's embarrassing I get tired this easily, I'm not here to enroll though, I'm just here to inquire about an antique.” You answered the pink-haired girl.

Her smile brightens and she shows you a badge, it's the same as the academy’s.

“Oh, I'm a student here, miss, rest assured that I'm knowledgeable enough though. If you want to tell me about it, maybe I can save you from climbing further up there!��

You take her kind offer and tell her everything you've noticed about the mirror you're holding. She asks you to put it in her hands, and after a few moments her answer comes to you.

“There's not a single trace of magic in here.”

You should've known, but you still felt quite disappointed. What was that back in the shop then? Delusion?

“Oh… I see, well good thing you're here, I might've gone up there only for nothing.” You can only laugh softly at her.

“Well, my professor's lab is there, so even if the mirror turns out to be a fake, you can still ask him about your theories regarding the portal. Don't worry, he won't think it's weird!”

“Also…” The cheerful voice suddenly turns into a whisper, “If you're planning to sell this thing, it might not be worth much.”

“Oh, uhm, I’m not going to sell it… but why wouldn't it be worth much?” You looked at her slowly.

“The mirror is tampered, or probably recently restored, the glass is new. It's not entirely an antique if there's new parts right?”

★

[Broken, bloody pieces of what used to be a fair hand mirror lie messily on the carpeted floors. The golden eyes staring at it only blinks.

The eyes move back onto the table, the metal that used to carry the glass is facing him. The man’s bloody hand, one where some shards are still buried in its skin, carefully caresses the embossed suns.

He then picks up a round piece of mirror, the crafting skills he picked up from his adventures made it so that the foreign piece would fit perfectly in the hollow space the old one left.

If not for keen eyes, it would've looked like it belongs there just fine.]

★

You just woke up, but you feel like going back into the darkness of your sleep.

And stay there for a long, long time.

Because in front of you is a maid. She's an ordinary maid, if not for the blue and gold envelope in your hands.

“His highness Phainon wishes to formally meet you in his estate. Today. Should I prepare your bath and clothes while you eat breakfast?” There's a hint of a smile on her face.

But not yours.

Because you think that this might've been your end. The words his highness sting you. Ah yes, the royalty and their titles, what could go wrong.

But the envelope is already there. For a split second, the idea of just chucking it down the fireplace and running to the countryside like those villainesses sounded good in your head, but you soon came to realize that declining a royal might just pose more misunderstandings.

Let's just hope he lives up to his novel persona and I'll be able to plead with him.

★

You're kind of disappointed in yourself.

For someone who's a ‘self-proclaimed The Era Nova specialist,’ you judged Phainon way too quickly.

It feels more awful seeing his closed-eye smile directed at you.

No, he didn't execute you or put you under some royal decree. What he did do is literally thank you for buying him flowers that night and served you the most fragrant (and probably expensive) tea you've ever had.

“Sorry for the sudden invite, I was just excited to finally have a friend here.”

“Ah… yes, of course, I'm happy to have met you too, your highness-” This time you made sure to not forget, but he only frowned at this.

“So formal now, aren't we?” He looks at you with what seems to be puppy-dog eyes and your heart flips.

“Did I… have I offended you that night? I'm sorry-”

“Oh no! No you didn't, I don't care much about titles like that anyway… plus even if I do, it's not your fault, you're not used to it, right?” He quickly exclaims, trying his best to prove your thoughts about that night wrong.

Used to it?

“Anyways, please don't think of this meeting as anything else aside from a simple chat with a friend.” He smiles again, “Oh, the biscuits ran out, let me fetch some more, if you excuse me.”

He saunters to the door, leaving you alone in his office. You suddenly feel smaller when you realize where you are. Is it really okay for him to bring a stranger to such a place?

He even personally fetched snacks for you, as in the novel, he's used to doing things on his own. It's because he grew up to do so, because he's raised to be alone.

But he never brought that up against anyone, instead he just considers it as a way of showing sincerity to those around him, personally attending to them and being ‘a friend’. These things about him make him such a warm character. You feel the worst for being distant to him.

You should've known that he probably never had anyone listen to his long-winded explanations about his antiques or just have a simple chat that doesn't involve royal politics. He's always been described in the novel as a free-spirited and cordial fellow after all.

But hopefully, he doesn't blame you for putting up walls. He was at the center of all in this novel, all the good and the bad. You just wanted to enjoy your stay here and go back home. You cannot risk being tied to him.

All these thoughts had you fiddling your necklace that's made with a rare pearl only found in the deepest parts of the sea. The thing is incredibly expensive. So when the pearl suddenly detaches from the chain, you pray Phainon takes longer and crawled to the floor to retrieve it.

You think you've hit an all-time high stress level when you feel a sharp pain in your palm. As you're skittering around the sofa, you manage to feel the pearl underneath it, what you didn't notice is the shard of glass sitting beside it.

It was too late when you felt it after unknowingly pressing down on it to catch the pearl. You sat back down on the sofa, carefully dropping it to your purse.

You held onto the glass shard though. The piece emanates a strange sheen to it, as if it's glowing.

Suddenly, the mirror flickers, a bright light reflects on it for a few seconds before disappearing.

No way… are all the mirrors in this world weird?

“Hey I'm back…?” You turned your head towards Phainon, who's carrying a plate of various biscuits and sweets. You hurriedly shove the shard in your purse too.

Phainon's stare darkens and you gulp. Shit did he see me crawling around in his office right after he trusted me to be left alone?

“Wait, so-”

“Your hand is bleeding, what happened?” Phainon quickly ran towards you. He set down the plate and pulled a snow-white handkerchief from his pockets. He gently wiped the blood which you hadn't noticed, had trickled to your fingers. He also patted closer to the wound, which made you wince.

“Wait, my pendant fell and I went to retrieve it, but I must've pressed my hand on a sharp edge… thank you for wiping it, I didn't notice the blood.” You alter the story a bit, not wanting to alert him about you taking something from his home, even if it's a mere mirror shard.

“I see… there's a washroom down the hallway, let me bring you there.” He stops dabbing at the wound, he then helps you up, the worried look on his face now lightened.

★

If you hadn't known, you would've thought that Phainon's estate is the Palace itself.

What's supposed to be a simple walk into the washroom turned into sightseeing for you. The hallways are magnificent, something you thought you'd only see in movies. The interior of the entire place is entangled in gold. There's also sculptures and antiques, which you're guessing are a part of Phainon's collection.

The washroom is covered in dark blue, which makes the marble of the sink stand out. As you dip your hand into the basin, you unconsciously looked into the mirror and met with Phainon's stare.

“Your estate is magnificent, your hi- ah, Phainon.” You mentioned, trying to stave off the awkwardness of him staring like a hawk while you clean your wound.

“Hmm, family passed it down to me, gift from the emperor.” Phainon continues. His body leans to the doorway, eyes still in your hands.

“I see… Do you live alone? Sorry if it seems prying, but I haven't seen another soul ever since I got here.”

He lives alone. You think. In the novel, while Phainon is presented to be this outgoing boy, he actually leads a secluded life. He chose to live alone in an estate to distance himself from the palace. But it would be weird if you acted like you knew.

“No, it's not prying, and yeah, I live alone, quite lonely if you ask me.” He walked towards you when you finished, grabbing your hands and gently drying it with a wash towel. He then wraps your palm in thin gauze, the actions making your cheeks heat up.

“Apologies if it seems sloppy, I haven't really done this to anyone aside from myself.” He murmurs.

“No, no, it's fine! Thanks a lot, Phainon.”

The two of you walk back to his office, there's still biscuits to finish and stories to tell, after all.

★

[For all he could remember, he's always been alone.

A child born from a loveless marriage, only brought to this world to fight for a piece of embellished metal. There was a time when he had friends and such, but it's a time long gone as what's only left now is a hollow manor he calls his home.

It's a lonely gift, devoid of anyone who cares. It's a cage in a sense that what's only keeping him here is the promise of a crown. If he could, he would've left in a heartbeat, but all he ever built up will be left in waste too.

So you cannot blame his anguish when he found out that his hardships were only written for entertaining an otherworldly audience. That one fateful evening where his magic uncovered the reality of his sad, lonely world.

But there was someone.

Who kept flipping the pages of his story, the one who laughed when he did, cries when he does. Curiosity led to observation, and suddenly, he didn't seem too alone.

He kept track of you in the reflection of waters, in dreams, in mirrors. Sometimes your words would be heard in his head, sometimes you're like an apparition in his walls.

But all that's important to him is that you're his devoted reader. A dedicated audience to this woeful farce.

He saw the ending, the bloodshed in the throne room, the crown and the new reign. He laughs, because it was framed as a victory, it's ironic — because all the nights he wished he was just born an ordinary boy ultimately ends up with him being farther away from it.

He’s not going to stray away from it though, he doesn't think he can, he's too deep to ever go back up. But he's still a lonely man, so when his magic finally transcends barriers, he couldn't help but ask you a question.

“Are you willing to do that for me?”

Your agreement is all that mattered, as he's hurriedly scribbling in the tattered book he found somewhere. The book lists itself as ‘The Era Nova’, but Phainon did not care about what anomaly made him aware of the universe’s truth, all he could care about is your new identity written in frantic scribbles.

Your soul feels nice. It's the only thing he could come up with when you came to him. It's like you truly loved him.

It's dark in his office. He couldn't believe a few hours ago you sat within the same room. He thanks the assassin sprawled out dead in the dungeons of this estate, his foolish plots gave him a reason to bring you here.

And a reason for you to save him, to show him you truly care for him. The handkerchief in his nose smells of faint iron. He could only apologize in his head for leaving you to hurt.

But he hopes you'd understand a desperate man’s attempt of making his predetermined ending feel better.]

★

You made it this time.

This time, you didn't whine about the academy's preference of stairs, instead you ran as fast as you could to a laboratory, in hand a broken piece of mirror. Your mind being more focused on the questions that lingered after your discovery at Phainon’s estate probably helped in obscuring the effects of running up at around five floors (to your estimation, at least).

When you reached the metal doors of the lab, you didn’t even knock, you only barged in, meeting the gazes of the pink-haired scholar who helped you last time and her so-called professor who’s sporting a peculiar eyepatch. The man did not seem to mind though, as he only sighed and mouthed a ‘told ya’ to his student. The said student only awkwardly smiled and ushered you further inside the room.

“When my dear student told me about your small predicament last time, it honestly piqued my interest. I had always heard of theories about portals and such, but this is my first time actually hearing about it as an experience rather than a hypothesis. Well then, I presume what’s in your hand is the experiment sample then?” The professor with the dead stare did not even spare that to you, his eyes are only trained towards the shard that’s nearly piercing through your skin.

“Don’t mind his bluntness, my teacher is a reliable scholar first and foremost, you can entrust him with studying about this seriously, especially since he’s very interested in it. I will also be sharing the progress transparently, so don’t worry. Now, if you don’t mind, you can loosen up your grip on that broken glass, it might pierce you…again.” The scholar’s eyes trail on your bandaged hand, her gentle words made you drop the mirror into the table, your fingers pushing it towards the professor.

“If my deductions are on the right track, alchemy might be able to replicate this kind of glass. If you would give me time to construct, I’ll be sure to leave your name into the papers I will produce about this. Hehe, imagine the looks on those fools’ faces once they realize that I am, once again, correct.” He muttered, attention now more focused on assessing the shard rather than in your conversation, with that in mind, you relent from asking further questions and just trusting their words.

“If anything happens, you’ll be the first to know. Thank you for this new knowledge, kind lady.” The pink-haired scholar assures you, escorting you out of the room, it’s probably because her mentor’s starting to open five cabinets at once now. Yeah, I’ll leave that guy alone too.

“If all of these end up right and the mirror or whatever portal is made, please give me a chance to use it.”

“Of course! I thought I’ll have to drag some poor scholar down or myself in that but it’s nice to know that someone is willing to play guinea pig in this experiment.” A voice from the inside suddenly rings out.

The two of you outside the door chuckled at that.

★

Just like in the real world, learning facilities at nighttime are eerily quiet and give off a strange chill the longer you stay.

The leaves surrounding the grove are rustling along the wind’s howls. You’re starting to regret your decision of not waiting until tomorrow morning to visit. You couldn’t blame yourself though, it was the closest lead you had to going back home, but running here at nightfall wasn’t the brightest idea you had for the day.

All the scholars are probably within their dormitories now or have already gone home. The likes of that professor are stuck within the highest floors that contain their laboratories.

If anything were to happen, nobody will be fast enough to get you out.

What the hell? Shut up. You reprimanded your unnecessary thoughts. In fact, you need to tackle a few questions that are plaguing your mind first.

Why did Phainon have this kind of item, a broken one at that, just littered on his floors. Wasn’t he a bit fussy of his collection in the novel? Why wouldn’t he notice if one of them is broken?

More popped up in your mind, unfortunately, it’s all questions and no answers.

If I’m correct, this glass belongs to that mirror he gifted me. But it’s intact, is this from another item? Another magic portal item or something?

Then, the scholar’s words rang loud and clear; “It's tampered.”

Did Phainon…break the mirror? Did he restore it because he was too embarrassed? Or was he someone who doesn't mind alterations on his antiques?

A stupid sounding thought broke out at the back of your mind.

Did he break it because he knew something was up?

Suddenly, a breeze passes by your shoulders. At first. At first it was only a breeze, but when you looked to your side, you suddenly felt something on the other. A fabric, just brushing close enough to feel in your skin but light enough to make you question if it's real.

But now you're sure it's real, because a few moments you hear pieces of metal clanging. You looked in front of you, and just like those apparitions in horror movies, there's a figure at the end of the dimly lit hallway.

A tall figure, donned in a black cloak and armored in swirling metal plates. A mask sits inside its hood. Its fingers covered in plated claws and its chest appear to be hollow.

He looks familiar.

You stop in your tracks, senses on high-alert. He's probably the one who brushed past you and if that's correct, then he's extremely fast. No use in outrunning him then, better just keep an eye out on his movements or sources of help.

The figure also stops and stares at you. Your stand-off lasted for a short while until it tilted its head,

And waved.

At least that's what you think it did before it suddenly vanished before your eyes, nowhere to be seen or felt again.

★

Phainon has developed a habit of sending you random letters and various trinkets he got from his travels.

He also loves to initiate meetings and tea times with you. At first, you're happy to attend each and every one of them, but as time goes on, you start to question his fondness for inviting you at least every other day.

Not that you doubt him, at least not too much — you knew his tendencies to latch on to things due to his upbringing, but you can't help but question his true motives when he just invades your personal time as if you're not an acquaintance he just met recently.

You learned to decline his invitations. You really liked his character, but you're unsure of whether you can handle being involved with him as a person. He's on his way to becoming the ruler of this vast kingdom and you're supposed to be on your way home, so not much should happen.

The invitations thinned out, albeit gradually. He still sends a lot of trinkets — such as small woodworks of cute animals and magic lamps, which are now starting to pile up on your work desk, but the letters and requests to meet do not overflow from the holder anymore. He appears to have gotten the message.

You want to go home. Sure, you loved this place and the magic it has, but the gnawing anxiety of the life you left back there is haunting your days here. If you're going to get yourself thrown into another world, you want to at least make amends in your previous one.

Speaking of going home, you're currently staring at a letter. The pale green envelope stares back, proudly displaying the logo of the academy on its seal. You take a deep breath and brace yourself for whatever the results will show.

Greetings, My Lady

I’m pleased to inform you that I was able to recreate the material you brought here last time. It was truly a magnificent experience…

The light in your eyes sparkled. I can finally go home. Your cheeks hurt grinning. You looked up to your ceiling, mentally saying farewells to the place that took you into this world.

You continue reading.

“...but unfortunately, a huge accident happened within the academy. A cloaked assailant sneaked within the grove and hurt a few scholars, aside from that, it seemed to be targeting this specific experiment. I saw with my own eyes how it shattered the mirror, almost pulverizing it. I was able to retrieve a few samples and escape but I am not sure if I'll be able to recreate it as fast…”

Now, this is why they say never celebrate too early. Disappointment eats you up, causing you to just chuck the letter away. Not time for farewells yet, you suppose.

But one thing caught your attention. Cloaked figure. That night, you also saw a figure with a similar description.

Black…cloak?

Phainon.

Many scenes of the novel involve Phainon disguising himself in a black cloak. When he assassinated the other royalty in that throne room, he was wearing a black cloak.

“Shit, why didn't I remember that sooner?” You uttered, almost inaudibly. You've been focused on going the past few days that you have forgotten the details of the novel.

Phainon might just be the reason you're failing your attempts at returning home, and you just let yourself be too involved with him.

★

Lately, instead of you, only letters of your declines have been reaching his doors.

Phainon is growing frustrated at the replies he received. Just as when he thought the two of you were getting closer, you just had to start distancing yourself.

Did you find out something?

He laughs sardonically, his hands covering his right eye that's now turning golden due to the sudden influx of magic. He looks down at his table, the paper now ruined, too much ink seeped into it. Of course you denied it again, and somehow managed to send it to him as he's writing another invite.

He can feel it, your soul wavering. When he first brought you here, all he felt was pure amazement and curiosity from you, but now he can feel doubts and fatigue too.

“Can't you… just- ah.” He slumps his head, turning towards the small figurine he carved earlier. It's a figure of two lovebirds, perched on a small throne while nuzzling each other. Both of them were wearing a tiny crown on their heads.

Really, he tried carving your likeness more times than he'd like to admit, but there's something about you that makes it so hard for him to be satisfied with just carvings. Whatever he makes doesn't live up to his image of you in his head — feels fake, feels cold. So he just opts to present your likeness as animals and things he's fond of.

Nowadays, Phainon has been fantasizing about you joining him on his journey.

So when he felt your soul trying to break free from this world, he couldn't help but silently beg you to stay and not leave him to be alone in this world again.

★

Please, be my partner. There is an upcoming ball to the palace, you're the only one I can trust.

You never expected such a heavy statement coming from him, especially not after you just tried to keep him at an arm's length. You've even reached a point of telling him off. There was stirring conflict within you, Phainon clearly appears to be invested in your friendship, but at the same time, you're uncertain of what kind of plot he'll bring into your already bizarre situation.

However, if you keep declining him time and time again, it'll appear unusual. The two of you started on good terms, suddenly abandoning him could be seen as rude and might just make him ask more questions.

And frankly, you're running out of believable reasons for declining him.

So you push yourself up and ask the maids for help. You'll humor him this time, maybe even get to ask him why he's so dead set on sticking close to you.

★

The carriage ride to the palace is a peaceful little thing.

You looked out to the town square, the awe of being in another still hints at you, but you've gotten used to the sights by now. All your attempts at steering away from the plot ironically ended up with you driving right through the center of it.

Everything with the palace screams imposing, it's a marvelous place, but it does a good job of making you feel small. Luckily, not a lot of guards are stationed to stare down at your minute existence. But the few ones who were are staring at you oddly.

You went through normal procedures and you're escorted to the grand doors. It's closed.

On your way here, there have been a multitude of red flags raising left and right. Firstly, it's quiet, not a single peep, not befitting of such a proud place. And for all the palace’s vanity, there's no other visitors of the same caliber, in fact there's no other visitors at all.

There was no ball.

That's your final observation. You don't know what you did so, so wrong in your stay here, but Phainon has reached a new point where he straight up lies to get your attention now.

What was so important about meeting you? When all he talks about when the two of you have your little tea parties are idle topics not worth making a palace this grand deserted.

The guards opened the door, and you're right, it's absolutely empty. There's supposed to be an option to go back, but the men outside had conveniently closed it off before you could say anything.

He really, really wants to talk, huh?

You march down deeper into the building, hoping that guesswork and acquired knowledge from the novel could bring you towards the prince’s quarters.

But before you could even reach the third set of winding hallways, you heard a loud scream coming from the central part of the floor. You froze, cold sweat forming in your temples. No, it couldn't be today right? Your heart pounds loudly, you can feel the beating in your ears.

Too early, it's years too early.

Phainon ascending to the throne couldn't be today, hell, it couldn't be this year. Because he's not yet prepared. He bought support from various kingdoms before the ascension, it's an integral part of the novel’s worldbuilding. From what you've heard from him, he only traveled within Okhema the past months.

So it shouldn't be today right?

One scream, two screams. Screams interrupted your silent denial of what's happening. There's too many, and it just got louder after the sound of a door being thrown open boomed.

I need to get out.

You tried navigating the hallways, hunching down when the screams got louder. It died down soon though, and you managed to find yourself in an open area that looked similar to the lobby you went in from.

It's not the same lobby though.

“Going to decline my invitation again?” A voice suddenly emerges from behind. You turn towards it and you see Phainon, holding a bloody greatsword and wearing an uncanny grin on his face.

Oh his face. It's a shame that his beautiful face is so fucking bloody right now. It's dripping, some clinging to his white hair. And his white regalia — might as well be red, with how drenched it is in blood.

The scarier part is that none of it is probably his blood. He's unscathed against this many royals, they didn't stand a single chance.

So not a chance you would. He makes way towards you, you can only step back mere centimeters before finally freezing up. He stops when he's close to your form, the smell of iron almost suffocating you.

He leans down, “You're going to leave me again, aren't you?”

“What…?”

“The people you're so afraid of ruining your life, these stupid royals, I killed them all, so you don't have to be afraid.”

“How did you… fuck, you're insane-” Your words are caught in your throat when Phainon suddenly grabs you and carries you in his shoulders. You tried hitting his back, but he only holds your waist tighter and snicker at your feeble attempts of breaking free.

He walks past the dead bodies of what used to be royals. You remember the scene from the novel, the fallen figures. You only tear up, your hands fall limp, refusing to hold onto Phainon's damp attire, lest you want to squeeze out royal blood from it.

“All of these blood flowing out of them and converging into one, this might just be the purest form of the royal blood they keep prattling about!” He suddenly mentions in passing, you feel his shoulders shake from laughter.

You shuddered.

You reach the throne room, which aside from the throne, just contains multiple portraits and statues. And the bodies of the people behind those, probably.

He settles you down the grandiose throne. It feels foreign, the velvet clings to your skin, while the metal feels too cold for comfort. He kneels down, arms clamped to your waist as he leans his head down on your thighs.

“Phainon.”

“Can you say my name again?” He looks up, putting his palm on your thigh and setting his chin on top of it, his manic, golden eyes just laser-focused on yours. The color just pops out more in contrast to the red around it.

“Why are you doing this?” You didn't entertain his request, which put a slight pout on his face. He removes his head on your thighs and lifts you up again, earning a yelp from you. He then settles down to the throne and places you on his lap, his arms locking you close to his chest.

“You said, that if I needed a princess by my side, you'd be willing to take that place,” Phainon whispers, now putting his chin up on your shoulders, his head slightly leaning towards yours.

Your eyes widened, “All this time, you're aware-”

“I am. What I didn't expect was you finding those anomalous portals fast, I tried breaking them all but they kept reappearing.” He sighs, sulking a bit.

That's why. That's why he seems so relaxed about you forgetting his titles, that's why he treats you as if you're not used to the customs of Okhema, your supposed birthplace.

Because it's him that plunged you right into this world.

“What I also didn't expect is that after all your declarations that you love me and that I am your favorite, the first thing you do is to try and leave me.” He continues.

Phainon made it a point to bring you entirely here, and not just stuff your soul on some poor extra. He altered the story not for himself, but to drag you along with him into this world.

“I am not from here, Phainon, and that was clear as day to you. I have a life back there! And the love I had for you, it's because you're a character I loved reading about-”

“What I had for you was real!” Phainon suddenly exclaims, he flips your positions, hands on your shoulders as he pushes your form to the throne’s backrest. “I've always observed you, you always appear to me when I feel so down. I've known you longer than you think!”

You're speechless. He can see you? All this time.

“You love me, don't you? So why leave?” Phainon leans his forehead on your shoulders. He's now straddling you, which makes it harder to move and the smell of blood more nauseating.

He lifts his head up, bringing his face close in front of yours, “Well it's not like you can, because yeah, it was me. All of it was me. The hand mirror? I broke it. The scholars, I just gave them a little scare. I did it all, for you… so you can't leave, not after you said you love me.”

“I don't-” He interrupts you.

“I will kill you.”

If there's still anxiety and fear left pent up within, it finally spilled out now. Your breath hitched at his statement, your entire body tensing up.

“My power grew to the point where I found out some… things. Did you know that if you leave your other body for too long, it'll cease to- hm, operate?” Phainon caresses your face before continuing, “If your body died there, then you'll have nothing to return to right?”

“I'm not going to kill you here, I’m killing you there, so that you'll be able to live here.”

“You're sick… You're the fucking worst, what did I ever do to you.” You broke down. Phainon responded by cradling your form and running his fingers in your hair.

“Nothing, you don't have to do anything. It's because I love you. Ah! I almost forgot,” He suddenly reaches out under his vest. He pulls out a blue velvet box and hands it to you.

His stare is expectant, so you opened the box, inside was a wooden figurine of two birds, perched on a throne that looks like the one the two of you are sitting in. You hate it. Not because it's badly made, no, actually the opposite — it's such a chillingly accurate representation of the scene you're currently in right now.

You hate what it's insinuating, you'd love to deny it, but underneath the figurine is a ring, a silver band, with a blue and yellow gem opposite of one another. The blue gem is enclosed in a moon, while the yellow one is within a sun.

Stop denying it, it's no use.

“I learned it from a jeweler who’s been working here since I was a child,” Phainon loosens his hold. He gently puts the ring on your finger. On his own is an identical one.

And as if noticing that something is missing when compared to the bird figurine, Phainon leans down and plucks something off of the floor on the throne's side. He grips the armrests as he does, caging you in, but his lowered form gives you a clearer picture of the bloodbath in the room. Gold and blues all intermingled with red.

Phainon straightens his posture again, in his hand are crowns. Two crowns.

You feel cold metal on the top of your head, in front of you Phainon also puts a crown on his. He smiles at you, so sweetly, before leaning down and sealing your fate with a passionate kiss.

That fateful day, the two of you are crowned Emperor and Empress of the kingdom.

Phainon had ascended the throne, this time, he isn't alone.

[The end.]

[seraph's note]: AWOOOOOOGH PHAINON. i am utterly devastated with 3.4 but at least brought the peak gameplay and character of my GOAT phainon. i've been enjoying on bringing him to just about any available content in-game lol.

this took waaaaaay longer than it should, i was supposed to upload it on the day i got him but i got writer's block lol. if it wasn't obvious, this is heavily based off of those isekai manhwas (that i will always eat up despite having almost the same plot everytime). the delay hopefully paid off as i channeled my inner yap god to this 11k word piece lmao. thx for reading if you managed to get to the end, love you for that, mwah.

want more? check out the [database.] for other content!

#seraph's_files #seraph.txt #seraph.exe #yandere x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail #phainon #phainon x reader #hsr phainon #hsr #hsr x reader #yandere hsr #yandere phainon #yandere male #yandere #yandere phainon x reader #yandere hsr x reader #tw: dark themes

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gukcnt · 2 months ago

Text

MY LOVE, UNTIL I RETURN ⭒ KTH

in which you and taehyung share an emotional final day, filled with desperate love and physical connection, as you prepare for the pain of his impending military enlistment.

pairing — dom!taehyung x sub!femreader

genre — established relationship, slice of life, military enlistment, long distance relationship, heartbreak, smut, fluff, lots of angst, sad ending

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, hard dom!taehyung, possessive!taehyung, emotional intimacy, grief, military enlistment anxiety, physical closeness, shyness and vulnerability, possessive tenderness, music and dancing, promises and vows, love confessions, lots of crying, post departure grief, separation anxiety, assurances of love, they love each other so much i can't, oral sex (f. receiving), eating out, cunnilingus, face riding, face sitting, cum swallowing, tongue fucking, clit stimulation, multiple sex scenes, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, lots of breast play, he is obsessed with her tits, nipple play, nipple sucking and biting, rough sex, missionary position, doggy, riding, gentle lovemaking, emotional sex, cockwarming, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, against the wall sex, cum play, overstimulation, making out, hickies/marking, bruising and scratching, spanking, shower sex, morning sex, oral sex (m. receiving), cock palming, cock sucking, face fucking, hair fisting, cum swallowing, power dynamics, body worship, loving aftercare

wc — 11k

a/n — i literally shed tears while writing this aaaa, i miss tae so much y'all! 😭

series m. list | main m. list

────୨ৎ────

The mourning was inevitable, the regular smell of air in your apartment filled with the musky smell of Taehyung's cologne.

A scent you were so used to that it felt like a part of your own skin.

The sunlight casts a soft glow over the couch where you sat, its cushions filled with years of shared moments.

Taehyung was beside you.

His presence as always providing you comfort, yet it was painful.

His broad shoulders, usually confident, now hunched forward showing the weight that he was carrying.

His dark hair slightly messy and falling over his eyes, framing his face in a way that makes him look both boyish and mature.

His deep brown eyes usually having a playful spark or intensity, were clouded today with grief.

And a desperation.

The sight of him like this—beautiful, broken, and yours—makes your chest ache painfully.

With a fierce love.

You’re curled up beside him, legs tucked beneath you as your body instinctively seeks his warmth.

You wore one of his oversized white shirts, it felt warm and cozy along with the smell of him that clings to the shirt.

Enveloping you.

Reminding you of his impending departure.

Your hands rested in your lap, fingers twisting nervously—a habit developed from anxiety that didn’t leave you since he told you about his military enlistment six days ago.

Your heart felt like it's trapped.

A reminder.

Of the clock ticking and each minute slipping from you until he leaves.

Taehyung's deep voice soon breaks the silence.

“My love.” he murmurs.

The endearment spilled out of his mouth for you, making your breath catch.

He reached for your hand, fingers warm and calloused from years of hard work, his roughness softening just for you.

His hand slowly starts tracing slow comforting circles over your knuckles, making your lips part.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this.” he says.

Voice cracking slightly with emotion.

“A week left and all I can think about is how I wanna memorize every inch of you,” he breathes.

“I wanna carry you with me, sweet girl, so I don’t forget what it feels like to be whole.”

His words felt like a knife to your chest and tears well up in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Your cheeks warming beneath his attention as you finally lift your eyes to meet his, raw vulnerability in them.

Stealing your breath.

“tae…” you whisper.

Your voice trembles, biting your lower lip, trying to hold back the sob trying to escape.

He shifts closer, arm wrapping around your waist possessively.

The heat of his touch grounding you against the ache in your chest.

His other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“I know my baby”

Voice steady for you despite the storm you know he is facing by looking at his eyes.

Wanting to stay strong for you.

His lips brush your forehead, lingering there.

Branding himself into your skin.

“I’m terrified too. The thought of being with you... fuck—it's like losing a part of myself,” he says.

“But I’m here now, hmm? I’m gonna love you so much, so completely, you’ll feel me even when I’m gone.”

His words felt like a lifeline and you lean onto him, head resting against his chest.

The steady beat of his heart matching your own.

That lulled you to sleep several nights.

Just imagining how you will sleep without it once he was gone brings tears back to your eyes.

You whimper shakily, causing his arms to tighten around you and you breathe in his cologne, clean male scent.

Your fingers clutched shirt.

Desperately clinging to him.

۶ৎ

The week before his departure has been full of emotions.

All moments shared close together, barely giving you any relief.

Mornings were spent tangled in bed as Taehyung's lips traced your sensitive skin—your neck, shoulder.

Especially the sensitive spot behind your ear, him knowing it makes you arch into him.

His constant whispers of “I love yous” and “you’re mine” surrounding you permanently.

Afternoons spent with quiet walks in your backyard garden, relishing each other's presence.

His hands never leaving yours, fingers holding yours tightly

Afraid you’ll slip away.

He tried to make things normal, you could feel it. His laughter, so rich and deep, comforting you in ways you couldn’t explain.

Taking away the pain of separation that will happen eventually, even for a little bit.

He wouldn’t leave your side even while cooking, staying by your side all the time while you prepared all his favorite meals.

Knowing he was gonna miss them when he's gone.

Heartfelt conversations and teasings would end up with heated kisses against the counter, his body pressed against yours, hands roaming all over you with hunger.

Never leaving a chance to not touch you.

But the nights—oh god, the nights.

It unraveled both of you in a way, desperation controlling you both.

The nights were a mix of touches and need.

Bodies speaking louder than words.

Each kiss and touch felt like a promise, a plea and a goodbye that will break you both.

And yet no amount of memorizing felt enough.

Not when the time constantly taunted you both.

۶ৎ

Taehyung pulls you closer, now in bed, arms tightening around you until there’s no space left.

His lips finding yours, gentle and soft, tasting you, tongue tangles with yours, slow and exploring every corner of your mouth.

Consuming you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rested against yours, both your breaths ragged, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

“My love,” he rasps.

“I need you to know something… for me, yeah? no matter where I am or how far apart we are, you're with me no matter what, always…”

“You’re in my very blood, my soul, and I’m gonna fight every day to come back to you, to hold you like this, and love you until we’re old and gray.”

His voice was gruff, laying his heart for you through his words.

“Do you hear me, hm, baby?”

His voice hitched, and you see his eyes glistening with tears.

A rare emotion, he hides so well.

He never cries.

But for you, he was a broken man.

You nod, throat too tight to speak, burying your face in his chest, tears soaking his shirt.

“I love you, taehyung.”

You sob, voice muffled.

“I’ll wait for you. I'll always wait for you.”

He holds you for what felt like hours and hours, the world fading.

Only the two of you.

All that existed was him, you, and the raw love you both shared for each other.

The love that you guys will have when he needs to go for his enlistment.

But for now, you clinged to the moment, soaking his warmth and his loving words, meant for you only.

Because you knew… that soon…

It will be all you have left.

۶ৎ

It's the day before Taehyung's departure.

The sky itself was gloomy today, the threat of rain mirroring the environment in your home.

The ache in your chest.

You stir awake in bed, body feeling heavy with what's about to come, the loss you're gonna face.

Your half lidded eyes opened slightly, only to find Taehyung already gazing at you.

He’s propped on one elbow, bare torso and hard muscles, his eyes holding yours with several emotions—love, hunger, and a quiet fury.

Anger at the time slipping away.

You’re curled up against him, your legs tangling with his beneath the sheets, an usual act, hinting that the intimacy of such normality will be gone soon.

“Darling…”

His voice made your throat tighten.

His hand reaches up, fingers brushing your cheek, calloused finger tracing your features.

A shiver goes down your spine.

“I want today to be ours.” he growls.

You let out a quiet whimper, tears welling in your eyes, but you held them back for the sake of both of you.

Wanting to make the most of today.

His dark eyes stared straight into your soul, getting to know all your feelings without you telling them.

“taehyung,” you crooned

“I don’t know how to let you go. I'm so scared.”

The words spilling out uncontrollably, raw and heartbreaking as tears started streaming down your face.

Against your will.

He immediately pulls you into his arms, hard chest pressing against you, and he fists your hair, holding you to him.

His hand slides to the small of your back, the heat of his touch seeping through you.

“Baby,” he hums.

“I’m terrified too. But I'm here now.”

Lips brushed over your jawline.

“I love you, sweet girl… more than anything”

۶ৎ

The day starts with each moment in a midst of needing to be close, imprinting the other's presence into memory.

Breakfast was quiet in the kitchen.

Taehyung was standing at the stove, broad shoulders relaxed as he flips the pancakes with a practiced ease.

He’s shirtless, only wearing sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing his masculine beauty.

Making your legs clench unknowingly.

You sit at the table, hands wrapping around a hot cup of coffee Taehyung made for you earlier.

Taehyung soon turns, a plate of crispy pancakes in hand, flashing you a warm smile.

A boxy smile that was now tinged with sadness.

That he tried his best to hide.

“Eat for me, love.” he orders.

His commanding voice slipped out of him, unknowingly.

Whenever he needs to take care of you.

He sets the plate before you, and drizzled some chocolate syrup over the pancakes, knowing by heart you like them like that.

He leans down, pecking your lips, your chest heaving at his care.

“I wanna see you smile today.” he demands.

You try, but the smile feels fake, something he notices.

He always does.

His eyes softened, and he sits across from you, knees touching yours under the table, teasing you.

His thumb strokes your palm, the simple touch sent a warmth through you, eyes meeting his, biting your bottom lip to control your emotions.

“tae…”

His grip tightens on you, eyes darkening.

“You don’t have to be strong, darling.” he coos.

“Fall apart if you need to. You know I'll always be here. Ready to catch you… always.”

The words felt like a vow, and before you know it, a tear spills down your cheeks.

He leans across the table, kissing the tear away, and you gasp, clinging to him.

His actions making you ache more.

And you realize you’ll ache forever.

Until he returns.

۶ৎ

After breakfast, his need to be close to you becomes overwhelming, and Taehyung suggests a shower.

Voice laced with desire.

Taehyung stepping in first in the spacious shower, and the sight of him under the water steals your breath.

The water streaming down his body, almost tracing his muscles, droplets cling to him, causing an insistent pulse between your legs.

His wet hair pressed to his forehead, and his eyes met yours, longing and lust in them.

He motions at you with a single finger.

“Come here.” he exhales, sharply.

You step into the shower, heart racing and the water now falling over you as well, soaking your shirt.

Making it see through for your man.

The sensation felt too much.

He pulls you against him, hands clutching your hips.

The water falling over you both, a warmth that shuts out the world.

You forget about everything.

Except him.

“You’re so beautiful…” he hums.

Lips brushed against your ear, naked chest pressing against yours, and his warm baritone makes your stomach flutter, eyes getting dilated.

“I wanna you feel good.” he purrs.

You huff, gripping his naked chest, nails digging into his skin.

His rough hands slide under your shirt, lifting it slowly, taking his time and making you impatient.

His hands roamed all over your body, gripping you wherever he wanted, and he finally tossed the shirt aside

It landed on the floor.

Leaving you bare for him.

The sudden exposure makes you shy, a flush warming your cheeks as you look away. Even after years of your relationship with him, the shyness never really faded.

But his gaze was unwavering, filled with so much adoration and love.

Your insecurities were gone.

“tae…” you whisper.

“You make me feel so…so seen.”

The words were vulnerable, and he responds with a hungry kiss, lips insistent, all tongue and teeth, claiming your mouth.

Almost like a feral animal taking his place.

The intensity made your knees weak as you cling to him while he practically eats your mouth.

The taste of him—clean, with a hint of the chocolate syrup from breakfast—flooding your senses, and you moan uncontrollably in his mouth.

“Mmm, tae…”

He swallows all your sounds with his tongue, his hands find your breasts, weighing them in his hands, loving the weight of them.

He always bragged about how your tits were the perfect size for him.

Made for his hands specifically.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, hardening them instantly under the touch, and the sensation was almost electric, a jolt of pleasure that goes straight to your pussy.

Your clit throbbing in need.

“Hah… oh, tae!”

You gasped, arching and pressing your breasts closer to him.

He groans lowly, thumbs connecting to your nipples, and he pinches your nipples lightly, rolling them between his fingers.

“Mhm, oh…oh…please—”

The combination of pain and pleasure made you pant.

“You’re always so sensitive… mm... I love it, baby.” he murmurs.

His lips brush against your collarbone while continuing to tease your nipples.

Water streamed over both of you, amplifying the sensation, the water acting like a slickness that leaves your mouth parted in ecstasy.

The water droplets slide down your skin, between your breasts, and Taehyung snarls at the sight.

Chasing the droplets with his tongue.

He finally decides to give you a bit of relief, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, tongue flicking it in fast motions.

“Nghh, taehyung!” You cry out.

The wet heat of his mouth and tongue was almost overwhelming, your thighs trembled, pussy growing slick with arousal.

Your hands, desperate for him, slides down his body, tracing the hard planes of his chest and abs.

He exhales, humming his approval against your nipples, the vibrations have you trembling.

Your hand soon reaches for his cock, already hard and heavy against his thigh.

You wrap your hand around him, fingers barely meeting from his thickness, and you revel in his hardness.

His head fell back, the noises escaping unrestrained.

“Fuck my love,” he pants.

Hips bucking into your hand.

“You drive me crazy.”

You start stroking him slowly, your own chest heaving with shaky breaths, feeling the throb of him, water washing away the precum bedding out of him.

Your mouth waters with want.

Your clit pulsing in time with your strokes, an ache that you try to ignore by pressing your thighs together.

Seeking relief.

“You’re so hard…” you coo.

Your voice shy but laced with need and he growls, hands gripping your ass and pulling you flush against his chest.

Your bare tits pressing onto his hard chest, you let out a whimper.

“I want you,” he gruffs.

Eyes meeting yours burning with a love so intense, you struggle to breathe.

“My baby, I’m gonna miss this—miss you—every fucking second.”

The words a confession full of raw pain, and you feel your tears mingling with the water streaming down your body.

“I’m gonna wait for you… I swear.” you sob.

Your hand still working his cock, and your other arm wrapped around his neck, holding him close.

Your promise settled on his chest until he feels desperate again, tongue entering your mouth, biting and sucking your bottom lip.

All while he fucks your fist, hips bucking.

His hand fisted your hair, and you whine, letting him take whatever he wants from you.

Taehyung’s hands roam all over your body, every curve, every dip.

As if he's memorizing you.

Your slick now dripping on the floor, and with each brush of his finger, the ache seemed to increase, and it was almost painful.

You didn’t want teasing.

Not today.

Not when the time was running out so fast.

“tae, I need you.” you begged.

He nods, eyes darkening with a promise.

His own patience running out, not wanting to waste even a second with you.

“Not here, princess,” he rasps, gently.

“I want you in our bed, where I can take my time with you… wanna make every moment worth it.”

He turns off the shower, grabs a fluffy towel, wrapping you in it, hands gentle but possessive as he dries you off.

His lips brushing your skin with every moment, and you lean against the wall, lips parted.

Savoring his attention.

۶ৎ

Taehyung picks you up in bridal style, naked and you clutch his shoulder.

Your heart pounded with the adoration he stares at you with, he starts walking, reaching the bedroom, both your bodies still wet and dripping from the shower.

He gently lays you down on the bed, your heart racing as you look up at him.

He hovers above you, one hand propped beside your head, his presence and your need causing goosebumps all over your skin.

“My love,” he breathes.

“I wanna worship you today. Every inch of you—I want it all to be mine.”

Devotion in his words.

You swallow hard, shyness making your cheeks flush, but his gaze holds you to him.

Taking away your instinct to hide.

“taehyung,” you tremble.

“I’m yours.”

You declare, like always, his eyes softening before he presses his lips to yours once again.

The kiss starting slow, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger.

He deepened the kiss, making you let out needy noises on his mouth, his teeth scraping your lower lip, your fingers curling into the sheets as you arch into him.

“Mhhh, Tae…” you moan, softly.

He pulls back, breath hot, looking at you with dark eyes.

Eyes gazing all over your naked body, drinking you in, his stare felt like a physical touch.

“I could spend forever just kissing you, but I need more.”

You pant as he begins his descent downwards, lips trailing over your jaw to your sensitive neck, sucking gently.

A gasp left your mouth.

A faint hickey left on your skin.

The sensation was a delicious sting, your toe curling.

You felt exposed, still slightly wet breasts rising and falling with your quickened breaths, and a groan leaves his mouth.

His eyes taking you in.

“Perfect,” he rasps, in awe.

“Absolutely goddamn perfect for me.”

His hands cupped them just like he did moments before in the bathroom, but he doesn’t make you ache anymore.

He smirks wickedly, at your neediness.

A knowing curve on his lips.

Lowering his mouth to your breast, taking one nipple in his mouth, harshly, a lot rougher and hungrier.

“Oh, Taehyung!” you cry out.

Fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging.

His teeth grazed your nipple, enough to make you gasp out, body shuddering with his attention to your breasts.

“Please… please!” Your breath shakes.

Hips shifting against the sheets.

“It feels so good.”

He moves to the other breast, grazing your nipple with his teeth while pinching the other neglected one.

You're a squirming mess for him.

“Fuck,” he chuckles, darkly.

Pulled away from your now overly sensitive breasts, from his torment.

“I love the noises you make for me, darling…”

His kisses trailed lower, slow and taking his time as he places kisses over the smooth skin on your stomach.

Lips lingering on your navel, tongue licking a stripe.

The ticklish feeling making you squeak.

And you let out a giggle despite the heat building inside you.

The sound draws a deep chuckle from him.

He glances up at you, eyes sparkling with love.

“I love that sound too,” he says.

Thumb brushing over your thigh.

“I’m gonna miss every part of you, love, every bit of your noises along with your happy ones.”

The reminder made your grin fade, the sadness taking over.

But it doesn’t last long.

His fingers start brushing against your folds, slow and teasing. He parts you gently to reveal your glistening pussy.

He uses the pads of his thumb, exposing you completely, baring the throbbing nub between your legs.

His fingers grazed your inner thighs, and you whine, slickness dropping more.

Shyness forgotten at the back of your mind from being so vulnerable in front of him, only needing relief.

You’re already too wet, pussy slick with arousal, clit needing his touch.

He paused, eyes fixing on you, and you gulp.

“Look at you,” he grunts.

“So wet for me already.”

His hand cupped your entire mound, fingers exploring your cunt, gathering your slick

“Tae… please.” you whimper.

Hips bucked towards him, seeking more.

He hums darkly, his gravel voice sending a shiver down your spine as he starts to circle your clit with his thumb.

Your hands fisting the sheets tightly, brows furrowing.

“So needy… just like a naughty girl,” he grits out.

“Don’t worry, sweet girl. I'm gonna give you everything you deserve.”

After all the teasing.

He finally presses his mouth to you.

The first touch of his tongue against your clit felt like a shock of pleasure, your hips lifted off the bed with a cry leaving your mouth.

“Hahh hah, tae—”

Your hands bunching the sheets around you, feeling dizzy with the wet heat of his tongue on your sensitive clit.

He starts sucking your clit, quickly and mercilessly, until you are shaking.

He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through you, and you're uttering nonsense right now.

Voice unrestrained.

“Oh God, taee.”

Your fingers griped his hair, hips tightly closing around his head but he holds you open with ease.

Your strength nothing compared to his.

He continues worshipping you with his mouth.

His tongue switched patterns, alternating from flat licks to your clit to occasional sucks that make your thighs tremble.

The obscene sounds filling the room—wet noises from his mouth, mixing with slick and his own soft groans, while tasting you.

“You taste so fucking good, I can eat this little pussy forever.” he growls.

Voice muffled in your pussy and you sob, hips rocking on his mouth instinctively.

His fingers soon join his tongue, sliding inside you with an ease and the sudden stretch has you letting out a scream.

Overwhelmed.

He curls them instantly, trying to find that spot inside you that makes you cry for him, his favorite music.

You start seeing stars behind your vision.

He thrusts his fingers in time with the movement of his tongue.

The dual sensation was too much

Too much all at once.

The wet heat of his tongue and his thick fingers fucking you in fast motions has you calling out his name constantly.

He groans against you like he’s the one being pleasured.

“Nghh, Tae, I’m fuck—I’m close.”

You quivered.

Thighs clamped tighter around his head, the pressure building in your stomach, ready to snap any moment

He doesn’t let up.

His tongue worked your clit, fingers thrusting faster, hitting that sweet spot every time, and it felt like torture to you.

A delicious torture.

“Come for me, princess,” he hisses.

Lips brushing your clit as he speaks.

“I want to feel you fall apart.”

The orgasm hits you, body convulsed, a broken scream leaving you.

“taehyung! oh god, taehyung!”

Your loud moans filling the room as your pussy clenches around his fingers, clit pulsing wildly against his tongue.

The sensation makes your body tremble uncontrollably, your grip on the sheets keeping you from falling apart.

He doesn’t stop.

His tongue gentle, still lapping at you, drawing out your pleasure until you’re letting out breathy sobs.

Oversensitive and breathless.

“It’s too much, please—”

You plead.

Hands tugging at his hair.

He finally pulls back, lips and chin glistening with your arousal, the sight made your pussy clench, despite your orgasm.

He crawls up your body, capturing your mouth in a possessive kiss.

The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you moan, gripping his hair once again.

A reminder of how thoroughly he’s claimed you.

“I love you.” you whimper against his lips.

“Love you too… my baby.”

Forehead rested against yours.

You cling to him, body still trembling as you press a kiss on his sweaty chest.

Your heart close to bursting.

You lie there, his arms wrapped around you, breathless and spent, the sheets damp beneath you with your release.

A proof of how he unraveled you so easily.

Your eyes fell to the clock, and your nails dig into his chest.

No matter how much you try to forget about what's about to come and enjoy the moment.

It's not possible.

Taehyung senses it, pulling you tighter to him.

His lips brushed your ear.

“This is just the beginning. I'm gonna spend all day today showing you how much you mean to me.”

۶ৎ

In the afternoon, you both are in the living room.

The air filled with jazz playing, a romantic song creating an intimate atmosphere.

A music genre that Taehyung always loved.

You both were enjoying each other's presence after having lunch, every detail of the day felt heightened.

As if the world had slowed.

To savor these last hours with Taehyung.

The weight of what's gonna happen tomorrow still there.

But for now.

There's only him—his presence, his touch on your body and love for you.

You’re standing in the center of the living room, bare feet. Taehyung standing across from you, intense eyes locking with yours

Your breath catches and you look away, a shy grin tugging at your lips.

“My love,”

“Dance with me.”

The command was soft, cheeks flushing as you hesitate, fingers twisting your shirt nervously.

But he steps closer, taking your hand in his big calloused ones, holding your soft small ones.

Protectively.

He pulls you into his arms, hand settling on his chest, and his hand grabbed your waist.

The other hand guiding your hand to his shoulder.

You felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, looked up at him, your own heart pounding, and eyes glistening.

You sway together.

The music helped with the slow movement of his hips against yours, breath warm against your temple, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there.

You purred unknowingly, and you felt his smile without seeing it.

In that moment it felt like the world disappeared.

Only the two of you existing.

His hand slides lower, fingers laying across the small of your back, pressing you closer.

The moment innocent and romantic, but the hunger between you was palpable.

Wanting to feel each other all the time.

Before everything ends.

The friction of his pants against your bare thighs felt maddening, a tease that made your pussy pulse.

Even though he made you come just a few hours ago.

His hard cock pressed against you, and your breathing turns shaky.

“tae…”

Your eyes flickering up to meet his and the raw emotion there make your knees weak.

Love, desperation, hunger.

He doesn’t respond with words, only a low guttural hum left him, dipping his head to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

His lips soft yet demanding, wanting to take as much as he can from you.

It felt familiar.

In a way, you know where he does it when he's needy for you.

The taste of him, flooding your senses.

You melted into him.

Your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding into your mouth, exploring you, something that he has been doing the entire day, almost as if he wants to etch your taste in his memory.

Still, it makes your head spin.

His hands begin to roam, one sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other slipping beneath your shirt to caress your bare skin.

You gasp into his mouth, body arching towards him.

The dance forgotten.

Music faded in the background, both getting distracted by each other.

Once again.

“I can't get enough of you, baby.” he rasps, against your lips.

His words laced with an urgency that makes your heart pulse.

He pulls back enough to look at you.

“I need you. Right fucking now.”

Your breath hitched, restriction fading at the fire his words.

“Yea…”

The word was simple, but he hears the plea in it.

His lips curve into an almost predatory smile, and before you can process it, he’s moving with an urgency.

He presses you against the wall, the wall cool against your back, pressing himself against you, pinning you in place.

His hands are everywhere, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one quick motion, leaving you bare before him.

You didn’t bother to wear any bra and panties because he was busy taking your clothes off everywhere, at anytime.

And he always loved it when you remain bare for him.

The cool air raised goosebumps all over your body as he takes you in, never getting enough.

His hands start tracing the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist.

Always taking his time exploring.

“I wanna see all of you… my beautiful girl.”

You tremble, lips parting on a shaky breath.

His mouth later finds your breasts, sucking and biting the nipple to his liking, switching breasts faster than you can keep track of.

Supplying both of them with his attention.

Your back arched off the wall.

“Oohh, Tae”

His obsession with your breasts never ending.

“I can never get enough of these tits” he grunts.

Your knees get weak, when he finally pulls back, your nipples completely coated with his saliva, and you whimper at the sight of him.

So commanding.

So utterly devoted to you.

“I wanna taste you everywhere” he groans.

He was about to kneel before you on the floor, but you stop him, a sudden urge overtaking your shyness.

A need to give as much as you’re receiving.

“taehyung…” you breathe, determined.

“Let me… Let me please you, please.”

His eyes widen slightly, soon turning into a smirk. He straightens, hands resting on your hips and nods, eyes never leaving yours.

“Anything for you, sweet girl.”

His voice thick with anticipation.

Now you are the one sinking to your knees before him on the floor.

Your hands tremble, reaching for his sweatpants, and you tug them down slowly, your breath catching as his cock springs free.

It's thick and heavy, tip glistening with precum, and the sight makes your mouth water.

Your pussy clenching.

You wrap your fingers around the base, marveling at the weight and it throbs for you, veins visible.

A low groan left Taehyung.

“Darling,” he exhales.

“Look at you, so eager for me.”

His hands cupped the back of your head, fingers fisting your hair.

Not pushing but guiding.

A gentle encouragement.

You leaned forward, lips brushing the tip, his salty taste filling your senses.

You moan softly, the sound vibrating against him, making him curse.

His grip on your hair tightened.

You finally take him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head before you slide down taking him deeper.

The stretch was intense, tears welling in your eyes from the sheer size of him, the weight of him making you sputter as you try to breathe through your nose.

You hollow your cheeks, sucking gently, and he groans, hips twitching forward.

“That’s it,” he growls.

“Such a good girl. Look at you, taking my cock so well.”

You whine against him.

“Fuck, keep doing that”

You bobbed your head, setting a rhythm, hand working what you cannot take inside your mouth, making gagging noises, which encourages him further.

His pleasing noises make you squeeze your thighs together, tears spilling down your cheeks.

The taste of him grows stronger as he spills more precum on your tongue and you savor it hungrily.

Your other hand cup his heavy balls, fondling and massaging them, to your liking, and he hisses.

His hips start to move, fucking your mouth with quick thrusts.

Taking what he wants from you.

“Oh God, your mouth feels like heaven.” he rasps.

Voice filled with awe and desperation.

His words spur you on and you take him deeper into your mouth, trying to relax your throat in order to fight the urge to gag.

The way he fills you so completely.

Taking over you.

You don’t stop, driven by the need to make him feel as cherished as he makes you feel, how he always puts your needs before his, when he deserved to be pleasured as well.

He’s close, you can tell—his breathing turns heavy, thrusts erratic, cock twitching against your tongue.

“You’re gonna make me come,” he warns.

“You want it, baby? Want me to come in this pretty mouth of yours?”

You nod as best as you can, your needy noises expressing your request for him to let go.

Your mouth worked faster.

And he finally lets out a strained groan, spilling in your mouth, hips stuttering.

The taste was overwhelming.

You swallow every drop, some of his release dripping down your chin, but you lick them like a good girl.

Licking the excess fluid off his cock.

Cleaning every single drop.

Trembling above you as he comes down, fingers stroking your hair, his eyes half lidded and jaw clenched.

He pulls you to your feet immediately, kissing you hungrily, tasting himself on your tongue.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Before you can deny him, his hands are on you again, lifting you effortlessly, legs wrapping around his waist and he presses you back against the wall.

Your chest heaved with your pants from his manhandling, the strength in his arms.

“I need to be inside you,” he growls.

“now.”

His cock hard again, or maybe it never softened.

It finds your cunt like a magnet, pressing against your slick folds like it's meant to be there and you whimper, core aching with need.

He doesn’t tease, doesn’t make you wait.

Knowing time was running out.

He lines himself up to your slit, thrusting into you in one smooth motion, filling you up and you forget to breathe.

“Gahhh, shit! taehyung!”

The stretch burned, but the pain soon mixes with pleasure, your head falling back against the wall.

He groans at the feel of your cunt clenching around him, forehead falling against yours.

“You're so tight and warm, my love.” his voice breaks.

“so damn good”

He starts to move, thrusting deep, yet quick, each one hitting that spot inside you, making you tremble in his arms.

Your body losing strength to hold yourself up, only supported by his arms, knowing he won't ever let you fall.

Trusting him with everything.

His powerful hands supported you, anchoring you to him, fucking you with a desperation that matches your own.

You call out his name, voice high and broken, nails raking down his back, leaving red, burning scratches all over his skin.

The sound of you both going at it drowns out the jazz still playing in the background.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, his tongue exploring your mouth almost matching with the motion of his thrusts.

All your loud moans and whimpers swallowed by his mouth.

“Mhmm, ahnnn.” you gasp, on his mouth.

Your noises encouraging him further to fuck you stupid against the wall.

“You’re mine.”

His palm lands a sharp spank on your bouncing ass and you let out a startled scream, his hips snapping.

Harder and faster.

“Say it, baby. Tell me you're mine.”

His voice possessive and angry, but there's also a hint of vulnerability.

A need for reassurance, making your heart ache.

He was overthinking.

“I’m yours tae!” you chant, voice breaking.

“Always, always only yours”

The words pushed him over the edge, hands bruising your ass while he pounds you to his liking.

You bite his shoulder to ground yourself, pussy clenching around his cock constantly, as the pressure builds.

“Come on,” he commands.

“I wanna feel you come on my cock like a good slut.”

His hands slips between you, fingers finding your clit like an expert, rubbing tight, quick circles, and you see stars.

“Ah, oh, fuck, fuck—”

You felt dizzy, head swimming as the pleasure makes you shatter so fast.

“Gosh, taehyung!”

Voice raw, pussy pulsing around him, milking his cock as you come.

He follows moments later, letting out an animal growl, cock pulsing, and he finally spills inside you, filling you to the brim.

His release warm inside you, making you shudder against him, biting his chest needily.

“Damn it.” he pants.

His thrusts slow and gentle now, drawing out the aftershocks until you are squirming in his arms, tears brimming your eyes.

He holds there, pinned to the wall, cock softening inside you.

You both cling to each other, a tangled mess of sweaty bodies not caring about anything but each other.

The room quiet now except for both your ragged breaths, the jazz playing in the background and the romantic song matching both your current state.

“I will miss you,” he whispers, voice choked.

“I’m gonna miss you every day.”

You cling to him, face burying in his shoulder, a few tears leaving you.

“I love you, tae,” you whimper

“I promise.”

The weight of tomorrow presses, heavily.

But for now.

You hold each other, everything else forgotten, every fear in the back of your minds.

Love the only thing existing.

۶ৎ

The night felt endless, raw desire and pained love filling the bedroom with heat.

The air heavy with the scent of sweat and arousal, your shared smell, the sheets tangled messily, soaking with dampness, clinging to both of your skin.

The only sounds—creak of the bed, skin slapping against skin along with your pleased noises, and his rough breathings.

The clock ticked on the nightstand.

A devastation.

Counting down the hours until Taehyung was gone.

But in this moment, time felt like an enemy, each touch and moan felt like you both wanted to hold it against the coming separation.

Taehyung was possessed with wild feral need, a beast with relentless energy, on a mission to unravel you and test your limits.

His dark hair was a sweaty mess clinging to his forehead, eyes were feral with a mix of rage, hunger, and love.

His muscles flexed with every movement of his, unbeatable strength driving him further into ruining you.

His cock standing proudly, hard and leaking precum, thrashing despite using it several times now.

And the breath leaves your lungs, shocked at his crazed need to own you.

Never getting enough of you.

Your pussy clenched with a need that feels almost painful, core swollen from all it has endured, but the slickness dripping out of you said otherwise.

Wanting him for the last time before morning arrives.

And everything ends.

“Mhnmm,” he growls.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard tonight, you’ll feel me for weeks… mm, you’ll feel me every time you sit or walk.”

Your stomach knots under his gaze, he looks at you all over, memorizing all your trembles and reactions completely.

The intensity makes you feel exposed yet treasured in a way that has your lips parted trying to breathe as much as you can.

You’re spread across the bed, skin flushed with slick and sweat. Your thighs slick with arousal, the cool air making your pussy throb with an ache.

Your cunt sensitive from hours of his touch, yet you crave more.

Always craving more.

Your breasts felt tender and way too painfully sensitive, nipples hardened from the night's earlier attentions, along with your swollen reddened lips from his relentless kisses and makeouts.

“Hnn tae,” you mewled.

“Take me, please…”

He doesn’t hesitate, movements quick, crawling over you and his lips crash against yours, tonguing your mouth.

His arousal clinged to your tongue as well, and all of it mixing together to make a lewd taste.

That has you both moaning.

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails scraping the already marked skin from earlier actions, making him hiss.

“This pussy is dripping for me, begging for my cock…”

“You’re gonna take my cock like a good naughty girl, hmm? Want me to fill you up, make you scream… yeah?”

His dirty words make you pant and you nod, breath hitching as he grips your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand.

The restraint has your body arch towards him, instinctively, body completely in control of him.

Turning you on further.

His fingers caress your soaked folds, parting them, sliding through your slickness, gathering them and teasing your slit.

You let out a whiny sigh, thighs parting further for him.

“tae… baby, please, I need you.”

The endearment for him rushes out of your mouth, a rare nickname for him that rarely slips out of you, due to your shyness.

And it makes him growl, satisfied, instantly rewarding you by plunging two of his thick fingers inside you.

“Hahh, gosh!” you moan.

He starts scissoring his fingers, stroking your spot and you are a mess, writhing against the bed, hips starting to rock against him at the motion of his thrusts.

“Yes, yes, yes, oh.”

You chant.

Your noises spilled out unconsciously, trying to quiet yourself as he works you open for him.

“That’s it, love”

Eyes fixed on your face, taking in all your reactions, making sure to go along with it, knowing exactly what you like, like the back of his hand.

“Don’t hold back, sweet girl,” he coaxes you.

“let everyone know how much you love my fingers in your tight little pussy… how it greedily sucks me in.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling it and your body jerks towards him.

His lips fall on your collarbone, leaving marks everywhere, sucking the marked skin from earlier, turning them purple.

Making sure the marks last you for weeks.

A reminder of him every time you look at a mirror, his love tattooed to your skin.

“taehyung, please… ohh, stop—stop teasing me! I need you—you inside me.”

You struggle to speak between your moans, voice breaking.

He groans, withdraws his fingers out of you with a wet squelch, bringing them to his mouth.

The sight of him licking your arousal off his fingers—eyes locked on yours, tongue slow as he savors each drop—makes you grind on his thigh, humping him like a bunny in heat, whimpers sputtering out of you.

Shame and shyness at the back of your mind.

Nothing makes sense to you anymore.

All you wanted was him and the connection.

“Shhh, don’t be such a dirty slut, baby.”

He rasps, steadying your moving thighs, stopping you from relief, and you pout.

“I could eat you the whole night, but I need to be inside you.” he exclaims, roughly.

Positioning himself between your legs, keeps your legs spread and without warning, he penetrates you.

Burying himself with a fast, brutal thrust.

“Oh my god, Taehyung, fuck!” you scream.

He grunts, beginning to move at a fast pace.

Pounding you or ruining you.

You couldn’t understand.

He reached such depths inside you, you didn’t know existed, almost reaching your stomach and your wails came out freely.

“Fuck, this cunt is all mine, yeah? made for my cock…”

He laughs darkly, a sex demon in his place and you almost couldn’t recognize him, hand fisting the sheets, burying your face in them.

“Fucking answer me, slut!”

He lashes out, fingers finding your clit and pinching it hard and you let out a scream, soon turning into a sob.

“Yes, yes, only yours, tae, too much.” you hiccup.

He hums his approval, bed shaking beneath you, the headboard hitting the wall with each of his thrusts.

His cock hits that spot inside you with every thrust, a torture that has your toes curling, breasts bouncing for his eyes.

You moaned, hips automatically pulling away from the pleasure, not understanding whether you want more or it's too much.

“Don’t run, baby…”

Gripping your wrists tighter, pinning you in place.

“Mhhh—you love this, don’t you? love being stretched to your limits?”

His hips puncturing each of his words inside you and you let out a sob at his words, body arching to meet his, hand gripping wherever you can on his body.

He releases your wrists, griped your hips instead, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

He angles you to take him deeper, thrusts growing more forceful and the sound of skin slapping against skin gets louder, his grunts escaping along with your mindless noises.

“I love you,” he signs.

“Shit, I can’t—I hate leaving you like this. I wanna stay here, fucking you, loving you forever...”

His anger can be heard in his words, thrusts turning angry, a glare etched his eyebrows.

“I love you, tae.”

“always—gahh hahhh—”

He leans down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, teeth grazing it.

The dual sensation—his cock pounding into you, mouth on your breast—too much.

You cannot take it.

“Come for me, darling. Show me how much you love my cock.”

His own voice strained.

His words pushed you over the edge and you shatter, orgasm breaking through you and you scream loudly in between your sobs.

“tae! mmphhh, nooo.”

Your pussy pulsed and clenched on him, his hips faltering.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t give you a moment to recover.

He pulls out and the sudden emptiness has you whimpering, but he's already flipping you onto your stomach, hands rough and urgent.

“On your knees.” he barks.

You obey, body trembling and controlled by him, sensing his anger.

All this will soon be over in a few hours.

You lifted your hips, ass presenting to him, pussy gaping after being stretched, giving him a good view of your insides and your release dripping out, folds swollen.

Your tight ring just above clenching pathetically, slicked as well.

“Goddamnit!” he growls.

You jump at how unrestrained and possessed he seemed right now, both of you wild and feeling madness overtake.

His hands grip your cheeks, spreading you open more, taking a good look at your bottom, your both holes.

You let out a trembling whimper, hiding your face in the sheets, overtaken by shame, but your hips still rocked towards him.

Wanting him.

“Such pretty holes for me. You're going to take me so good, mhmm?” he breathes.

He thrusts into you again, the new angle getting him a lot deeper than expected.

“Ahh, tae, too much—too—”

Your voice cracks, hands fisting the sheets, burying your face in them and biting on a pillow, trying to ground yourself.

Almost tearing the fabric in the process.

His hips slam against your ass, eyes fixed on your bouncing ass and the way his cock plunges in and out of your sopping pussy.

Coated with your arousal.

A sight that will be a permanent thing in his memory for the lonely nights in the military.

He trembles, his own moans leaving as he continues drilling into you, balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, sending jolts of painful pleasure into you.

Your body instinctively moves away, his fingers quickly grabbing a handful of your hair, pulling you to meet his thrusts and the pain along with pleasure has you letting out cries.

Your throat aching from the constant noises.

“Ah, you’re my girl for sure.” he praises.

He reached around, palming your pussy, tapping your clit with his fingers a few times, enough to make you scream.

“taehyung. taehyung. taehyung”

You call out his name repetitively, mindless, only capable of uttering his name.

“I’m gonna, ahhah, come again.”

He grunts, thrusts growing erratic, control leaving him.

“Do it, baby, let me feel you fall apart for me once again”

You scream, vision going white, coming once again, losing count of how many orgasms you've had in a day.

Your body hurt, achy core swollen, body falling limp onto the bed.

He follows you soon, his groan primal, cock pulsing, spilling inside you, filling you up until it hurts.

A pain you welcomed.

“Fuck” he pants.

He collapses onto you, his weight heavy and making you feel secure, breath hot against your neck.

“You’re everything”

Your body still shook, which he tries to soothe by lovingly caressing your back.

But he’s not done.

The night still there, a need still wanting to be quenched.

He pulls out, making you whimper and he flips you onto your back again, eyes dark.

“I need more,” he growls.

“You know I won’t stop until you say the safe word, love…”

His words final and he spreads your legs, eyes locking onto your pussy, dripping with his release mixed with yours and he snarls loudly at the sight.

Your body weak as your toes curled, almost like you're preparing yourself for the long night ahead.

He leans down, not being able to help himself, tongue capturing the little overstimulated bud that has been palpitating needily.

Your body jerked.

“Hnnngg! tae, please, I can't anymore—”

You sniffed, tears streaming but he didn’t listen, tongue collecting both of your arousals mixed together, humming at the taste, sucking until you let out a broken wail.

Your mouth parted, drool spilling onto the sheets.

Your thighs shook around his head and he finally decides to give you a break, letting you breathe.

He slowly faces you, lips glistening, kissing you, sucking onto your bottom lip, letting you taste the combination.

“I’m so angry I have to leave you.”

His words were angry as you see his nostrils flare, and you grip onto his hair, sucking his tongue needily.

“Come back to me soon, tae… come home.”

Still struggling to speak from your intense orgasms, you could feel your heart breaking, a feeling that was more painful than anything.

Home.

A word that he knew was only associated with you.

Home was where you are.

“always... my precious girl.”

His eyes locked onto yours and the endearment of his words, the connection between the two of you had tears streaming down your eyes, his own tears mixing with yours.

Him not being able to stay strong any further. You cling to each other, never wanting to let go.

Hating the universe for separating you both

۶ৎ

The night continues in a rush of different positions, each one more desperate than the other.

He takes you on your side, one leg hooked over his shoulder, cock hitting deep.

You also ride his cock, which turned into him fucking you against the headboard, your back pressed against the wood.

Your screams and cries echoed through the night, filling the room along with his occasional groans and ragged breaths.

By dawn, you both were spent.

The room heavy with the scent of sex.

You collapsed together, naked and tangled, bodies no longer able to move, drained of all its energy.

۶ৎ

The morning light hits you through the bedroom window, unforgiving, the reality of what's about to happen sinking in.

The tangled, damp sheets clings to both of you, the faint red marks on your body and his, from the passion and roughness of last night.

The air still thick with the obscene smell of sweat and sex from what you and Taehyung shared.

Your body ached intensely, each muscle raw and painful from hours of lovemaking.

But it doesn’t compare to the pain in your heart.

A wound that's threatening to break you completely.

You stirred, fighting against the exhaustion, and the first thing you feel was that Taehyung's still inside you.

His cock, now softened but heavy, remains nestled deep inside your pussy, a connection that felt like a lifeline in this moment.

He didn’t want to let you go.

So he stayed inside while you were unconscious in tiredness, asleep.

The sensation was overwhelming—binding you together physically as if that can even stop what's about to happen soon.

Your walls pulse softly around him, still sensitive from the night's intensity, each flutter on your oversensitive core, sending you gasping.

The warmth of him inside you grounded you, reminding you of the way he claimed you.

Just an hour ago.

You’re sprawled across his chest, cheek pressed against his hard muscle, his heartbeat lulling you.

His skin was still slightly slicked with sweat and you look up at him, watching him sleep so peacefully, the sight bringing fresh tears to your eyes.

His lips slightly parted, skin flushed, in that moment he looked so innocent, so peaceful, away from all the worries in the world, just resting, something so rare.

A sight you will lose for long months.

You placed a soft kiss on his chest, just below his nipple, tasting the saltiness of his sweat.

The cockwarming felt more than physical—a refusal to let go even in sleep.

Your pussy stretched and full and every breath you took shifts you slightly, causing him to press further into your inner walls.

Your breath hitched, a moan escaping.

It's not arousal, not exactly, your body was too spent for that.

But a deep, aching connection

A need to hold onto him in every possible way.

You felt vulnerable, heart breaking into pieces at the thought of losing this closeness. The sensation of being connected to him felt both comforting and torturous.

You pressed closer to him, fingers curling onto his chest.

As if you can keep him here.

Make him stay.

Taehyung’s arms are wrapped around you, one hand resting possessively on your hip, the other tangling in your hair as if he’s afraid to let go even in sleep.

His chest rising and falling with his breaths, but there’s a tension in his body.

You shift slightly, his cock twitching inside you and you let out a quiet whimper, body too tired to respond fully but you are too aware of him, so you cannot ignore it.

Your movement felt by him and he soon wakes, breath hitching as he realizes that it's morning now.

The thought settling over him like dread.

“Morning, sweet girl.” he murmurs.

His voice raspy and deep from sleep.

You knew he was trying to lighten your mood.

But it wasn’t working, it ached you further hearing his voice.

His lips brushed your forehead, lingering there, feeling his lips tremble, his emotions can be felt just from that simple touch alone.

His cock still inside you and he doesn’t move to pull out as if he were too clinging to the final moment of connection.

“So warm, so perfect around me… god, I don’t want to leave this—leave you.”

His voice almost breaking with his own pain, your chest tightened, throat constricting with unshed tears.

You tilt your head to meet his and the sight of his eyes—red rimmed along with exhaustion but still expressed so much love for you just with his eyes alone.

The stubble on his jaw gives him a rugged, almost broken beauty.

“tae” you breathe.

His face was blurry with the tears you cannot hold back anymore, buring your face in his chest, wanting to escape this moment so bad.

But his fingers grip your chin, turning your face to his, gaze intense, demanding the truth.

“I’m—I’m gonna miss you.” you confess, shakily.

His jaw clenched and you can see the flash of anger in his face—anger at the fact that he has to leave you, that you are crying.

He hates being the reason for your tears.

He feels like killing himself if that will stop you from crying, from hurting.

“Fuck this,” he spits out.

“I don’t want to go, baby. I can't—”

He swallows hard, brows furrowing in pain.

“I can't leave you like this, still wrapped around me, so mine... this is killing me.”

His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into your skin, with a desperate need to hold onto you.

You’re crying now, silent tears streamed down your face, he cups your face in his hand, thumbs brushing away your tears.

His tenderness making you cry harder.

His warm touch not enough to dull the grief you were facing.

“I’ll wait for you, tae. I promise, until you return.”

His eyes soften, but the anger still there.

“I’m coming back to you. Nothing, absolutely no fucking thing, will keep me from you… I swear it, hm?”

His hand holds you to him tightly, the movement causing his cock to shift inside you, you shudder against him.

He lets out a deep, tortured groan, forehead meeting yours.

“You’re my only girl.”

You whimper at his words, his endless love for you and how he makes you feel so important.

So needed.

“I want to stay like this forever.” he murmurs.

You nod, tears falling faster, he captures your lips, desperately, with a mix of sorrow.

His tongue claims your mouth with a hunger that makes your heart race, you kiss him back with equal fevor, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.

You feel him twitch inside you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, hands still cupping your face.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” he commands.

“Eat properly, don’t skip meals. You know I don’t like it, yeah? and I need you strong and healthy, waiting for me… promise me, come on.”

His voice authoritative in a way that makes a small smile tug at your lips, a hushed chuckle leaving you that makes him smile in return.

Him always fussing over to take care of you in other days made you amused, tease him, but now it felt too wrong.

Too heartbreaking.

“I promise.” you tremble.

He nods, eyes searching yours, memorizing all your features for one last time.

“And sleep well.” he continues.

Voice almost pleading.

“Don’t stay up all night worrying about me, tiring yourself. If you’re not okay, I won’t be either… so be a good girl for me.”

You lean into his touch, tears soaking his skin.

“I’ll try,” you whimper.

“For you, I’ll try.”

He exhales shakily, pecking your lips.

“I love you.”

“You’re my reason. Don’t ever forget that.” he whispers.

Finally he moves, his cock slipping out of you, with a wet sound, you both gasp at the loss of him so suddenly after being full the entire night.

Leaving you hollow.

Your pussy gapes before clenching around nothing and you let out a whine, the sudden absence almost painful.

“I’m sorry, my love.” he croaks, hurt in his voice.

Kissing your nose, he helps you settle against the pillows, hands gentle but trembling.

The room already felt cold without his arms wrapped around you and you bite your bottom lip trying to hide a wail, pulling the sheets around your naked body.

A shield against the reality of his departure.

Taehyung stands, broad shoulder decorated with red marks from your nails, occurred from your desperation.

His skin holding your marks.

He moves to the dresser, pulling out the neatly folded military uniform that’s been waiting like a burden all week.

The olive green fabric was a sharp difference from the soft masculine clothes he usually wears and the contrast breaks your heart a little more.

He dresses with a quiet intensity as if getting ready for a war he doesn’t want to fight.

Being forced to do this.

The uniform hugs his muscles tightly and the sight of him in it was both breathtaking and devastating for you.

He looked like a soldier.

Strong and determined.

But the slump of his shoulders and his clenched jaw proved that he was breaking inside.

Shattering.

He catches you watching him, a flash of raw pain etches his features.

“Don’t look at me like that, princess,” he pleads.

“You’re making it harder.”

But he crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees beside the bed, hand reaching for yours.

He pressed your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles with so much adoration you cannot breathe, his own hand shaking.

“I need you to be strong for me”

“Eat and sleep well. Do it for me, my love, because I'm coming back… and I need you whole when I do.”

“I will.” you sob, voice barely there.

He stands up, pulling you in his arms, capturing your lips in another kiss, this one softer and gentler, trying to savor you.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs wipe away your tears when his own are spilling.

The saltiness of both your tears being tasted and shared between you.

Last shared kiss.

One last time.

“I’ll write to you.” he says.

Once he pulls back, voice fierce and determined.

“Every chance I get, and when I’m back. I’m never letting you again… you'll be mine forever.”

He stands, grabbing the duffel bag that’s been packed and waited by the door.

You follow him to the doorway, the sheets wrapped around your bare body, legs unsteady, each step aching your core from all it endured last night.

But it wasn’t enough to stop your cries, or the pain of him leaving you for so long.

He turned to you one last time, eyes burning with love and rage, his jaw ticking at how helpless he felt.

“I love you”

He breathes, rough hand coming up to caress your cheek one last time.

“always”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and you're left empty, all alone.

You collapsed to the floor, sobs leaving your mouth, freely now, no longer holding back as you poured out all your emotions.

Your pained cries echoing in the room, the empty room taunting you.

His scent still on your skin, his warmth in the sheets.

But it's never enough.

It's not him.

But it will be all you have left to cling to in the long months ahead, his love for you the only anchor.

Until he returns.

Back to your arms, but this time no world to pull you both apart.

────

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 8 months ago

Text

Mama, I’m in love with a criminal

Tags: Sukuna x fem!Reader, no curse au, dead dove, violence described including murder, dark romance, use of y/n, descriptions of mental illness.

Synopsis: Sukuna’s talking to his therapist in jail about you. He’s incarcerated because of you, and his obsession is concerning.

An: Yeah idk i thought of this while I was driving to work one morning.

Session one. | Session two. | Session three. | Session four. | Termination session.

His large frame laid lazily over the couch, clad in an orange jumpsuit. He had his feet propped up on one side, and his head was propped up on the other side in a far too casual manner. His naturally pink hair pushed up near the front, messily so.

He was still cuffed and shackled, but the therapist was still afraid of him. To the therapist’s credit, he had read the warrant that went into viscous detail of Sukuna’s crimes.

Normally, the therapist wouldn’t read the inmates warrants due to situations like these. He liked going into sessions with an open mind, but he had gotten warnings about Sukuna… how the man can fly into a blind rage like a switch on the wall.

He was brutal, unforgivable, inhumane.

Simple counseling wasn’t going to “fix” a broken human like Sukuna. The therapist knew this, but the state mandated that Sukuna undergo weekly counseling sessions per his sentence.

Sukuna could taste the therapist’s fear, and he let out an earnest laugh. “You don’t even want to try to fix me, do you?” He asked tauntingly with a lopsided grin. “I don’t blame you. Don’t feel bad~”

The therapist swallowed the lump in his throat, and he adjusted in his seat. “I can’t fix anyone… Counseling isn’t about fixing.. It’s about moving forward and learning how to live.”

“Bullshit.” Sukuna spits with shrug. “Counseling is about focusing on the past and letting shit hang you up for far too long. I guarantee you that you’re going to ask me about how I got here, is that right?”

The therapist is shaking like a leaf at this point. “Our past can help us navigate to a better future.” He murmured out weakly.

Sukuna roars in laughter, causing the therapist to nearly jump out of his seat. The pink-haired felon doubles over as he laughs hysterically. “You’re a funny guy. Fine. You really want to know how I got here? I’ll tell you.”

After a deep breath and wiping away a fake tear, Sukuna goes on, “You know, teachers always believe that pairing the troubled kids up with the good kids will inspire them to act right. That shit never works.”

“I think that’s when my ‘type’ developed. My bitch of a second-grade teacher assigned me to sit next to this frail meek girl after I got in trouble one too many times for terrorizing the other kids. She was a real stick in the mud.” Sukuna laughs fondly, a rare genuine smile on his face.

“Y/n?” The therapist asks, remembering your name from the warrants.

Sukuna’s red eyes snap over to the therapist with an almost predatory gaze. His hands visibly curl into fists. “Say her name again, and I’ll splatter your blood all over this room. The officers won’t be able to pry me from you, deeming you to be a lost cause.”

The therapist freezes as the breath hitches in his throat. His eyes dart toward his panic button, knowing he should probably press it now, but he’s frozen in fear.

“We’ll call her mouse.” Sukuna goes on as if he didn’t just threaten the poor guy’s life in brutal detail.

“Mouse was a real challenge. I for some reason made it my mission to get her to talk to me, but she always stayed silent — only answering me with simple head gestures.” He laughs again, lying his head back further as he’s replaying the memories in his mind. He can remember you vividly and how you looked back then. He yearns for that feeling again. The feeling of seeing you for the first time.

“I can’t exactly tell you when the challenge started to border obsession, but she slowly slithered her way into my brain. Even when I wasn’t in school, I thought about her. I wondered what she sounded like, wondered why she wouldn’t talk to me, wondered why she looked at me like that.”

The therapist furrows his eyebrows. Even though he doesn’t feel safe in this session, and he doesn’t trust Sukuna at all, he has a hunger for knowledge, and he loves solving things that have to do with the human psyche.

“Looked at you like what?” The therapist dared to ask.

Sukuna stayed silent for a moment, and he tapped his finger against the back of his hand. His face hardened as he found the words he was looking for. “She looked at me like she had no preconceived notion of me. Her eyes… were so big and round. Even though she didn’t talk to me, it was like she accepting of my presence.”

The shackles jingled as Sukuna rubbed his face in a stressed gesture. Remembering you was like a double edged sword. He loved thinking about you, but he hated being reminded that he was without you.

The therapist eased in his chair. There was actual emotions underneath all those tattoos, thick skin, and muscle. The media had portrayed Sukuna as a complete narcissistic sociopath, but this was proof that diagnosis was false.

“I bothered the shit out of her for years, continually getting myself paired up with her.” Sukuna grinned, shifting the conversation back in a direction that he was more comfortable with, “I remember those asshole kids always called me her shadow because I followed her everywhere. Jokes on them.”

The therapist shivered as be remembered a chilling detail from the warrants. Each time a victim was found, a message was written in the victim’s blood.

-ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ

His victim’s - their deaths were like an homage to you.

“Were the kids ever… assholes to mouse?”

Sukuna’s jaw visibly tightened. He loathed this therapist’s questions… thinking he knew everything just because you and Sukuna were misunderstood kids.

“They called her weird for not talking.” Sukuna recalled as he bit his inner cheek. His eyes glared to the wall in front of him. “Now look at who can’t talk.”

Sukuna’s first victim. He didn’t start out with murder. He started out with stapling your bullies mouth shut for taunting you. Everything was for you. Everything.

He held a kid down to the teacher’s in third grade, grabbing a stapler, and he pressed it down one by one into the kids lips, binding them together. The kid couldn’t scream or cry for help, or else he’d risk ripping the flesh on his lips.

The teachers found the kid and immediately knew the only kid sadistic enough to go through with such an act was none other than Sukuna.

“Did mouse witness you do that?” The therapist asked, genuinely intrigued by Sukuna’s narrative. For being a ruthless criminal, he was a wonderful historian.

“No. Why would I scare her like that?” Sukuna’s voice was tense as he eyed the therapist carefully, as if he was waiting for him to say the wrong thing.

The therapist clicks his tongue in surprise, and he looks like a deer in headlights. “Scare? No.. no, I thought you’d maybe just show off what you did for her.”

“I’m not the type to show off.” Sukuna answers flatly, and the therapist wonders if that’s the first time Sukuna’s lied during this session. He knows that Sukuna likes to show off. The warrants prove it.

“Anyways, I wore her down over the years. She didn’t speak to me until we were in sixth grade.” An eerie smile curls on Sukuna’s lip. “I can still remember her first word to me and how she said it…”

The therapist leaned in, curiosity getting best of him.

Sukuna smirks, knowing he has the therapist interested now. “Her first word to me was a plea. A word to show her undeniable want. Her first word to me was please.”

Bang! Bang Bang!

The therapist literally flinches out of his chair from the heavy knocks at the door.

“Ryomen! Your time is up!” The officer yelled on the other side of the door.

“Pity. I was beginning to have fun.” Sukuna remarked as he stood up from the couch. The shackles jingled as he walked toward the door, and the door buzzed, letting him out. “See you next week, doc.”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #fanfic #drabble #jjk sukuna #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #jujutsu sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #jjk ryomen #ryomen x reader #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #dark romance

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satorena · 7 months ago

Text

#INTRO2MUNCH101

summ. when suguru “eat it off the bone” geto actually turns out to be suguru “flaps the left lip until she calls it a night” geto, he finds himself questioning everything he thought he knew about his skills. . . talk about a rude awakening.

cw. explicit content. foul language. fem!reader. college!au. eventual smut (but not in the way you think. . .) mild modern lingo. allusions to music artists. cunningulūs. male masturbation. reader has a belly piercing. she’s also depicted mean by the boys. gojo cameos bc i can’t not mention him. tattoo artist!geto. substance consumption. lowkeyyy self-indulgent reader. 10k wc.

rena's note. this is a spin-off to p power, so i’d suggest reading that first to understand the correlation! & shoutout to @yung-notorious for the idea <3

suguru geto is a simple man.

your pleasure is his pleasure. he’s always prided himself on being a pro at the art of cunningulus. honest— he’s always left with swollen lips, a heavily sprayed face and a solid five star ratings at the end of his work. his jaw feels tired out, scalp burning from consistent hair tugs, and his breathing uneven from lack of oxygen. but at the feel of plush thighs squeezing his face and the repetition of his name flowing into the air before getting squirted on, he remembers it’s always worth it.

no pain no gain, right?

wrong.

because here he finds himself, a hefty hour in since he first dove in between your soft legs, and there’s been absolutely no development. sprawled on your back on his sheets, arm slung over your eyes, and your breathing even. you look fucking bored, and his heart is sinking to his ass.

geto will use every trick he has in the book. he’s noticed overtime that girls have different bodies, therefore he needs different tactics to stimulate those bodies. he nips at your puffy bud, sucking on your clit for external pleasure. no use. fine, then he’ll push your thighs up some more for a deeper penetration of his fingers in your cunt— still no use. the only sounds being produced are his mouth slipping against his own saliva at your pussy because he can’t even get you wet enough.

the pit in his stomach grows larger. he wonders if maybe you’re just the silent type? he’s come across those before.

he’s getting nervous out of his mind, so shaky and uncoordinated that his hand slips and meets your lips for the umpteenth time— and only then do you release a guttural groan, the very first sound you’ve made in a long ass time. wait—

“did. . . did you cum?” he pants, pulling his sticky lips away from yours. his face feels moist, blood rushing all in his head and he’s lightheaded. but still, he has to know.

you push yourself up to your elbows, annoyance clear as day. he’s yet to seen this look on a girl after pulling every card known on the table, “yeah. . . to the wrong fucking house.”

oh fuck.

☆ ☆ ☆

he first spotted you chatting it up with your friends on the school’s soccer field, on a random tuesday afternoon, and he’s been hooked on you ever since.

the universe played a funny game, and he realized university truly is a small ass world. amongst your friends, he noticed a familiar face. one he’s been hearing and seeing of one too many times lately, on multiple separate and traumatic occasions— gojo’s girlfriend. suguru found himself bonding with her due to their familiar point of interest— that being gojo— and believes he can now make of her a friend.

geto watches his best friend’s eyes shimmer and he flashes his infamous million dollar smile. he really is obsessed with his girlfriend and she doesn’t even know— and geto finds himself wishing he had somebody he’d be this ecstatic over. must be nice.

“i’m gonna go say hi to my girl real quick,” gojo taps at his shoulder, and geto nods. he’s cool on it, he’ll wait back here until he’s done, or can make his way to his next class depending on whatever gojo and his girlfriend arrange. “you comin’?”

“i’m probably gonna head to our next lecture.” geto voices out, pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time. he feels gojo peeking over his shoulder, in which he assumes to verify if that would be necessary.

over forty-five minutes. damn it.

“that’s mad pointless, class doesn’t start till more than half an hour,” gojo says, and geto doesn’t see himself waiting around that long for a lecture. no way, “just come— her friends are chill.”

fuck it, he goes. naturally, gojo is all over his girl and her friends expect it. geto does give them a little wave when gojo introduces him. one of the girls mention having heard of him through a friend— something about a failed talking stage. mad federal, and the sheepish chuckle geto offers when you give him an unreadable look makes him want to crawl into a ditch.

so now you think he’s a whore. awesome.

and gojo’s smirk definitely doesn’t help him out. he doesn’t help out at all actually, so enamoured by his girlfriend that he leaves geto to fend for himself against a pack of wolves (read: nosy girls). he replies only when spoken to, nods when necessary and throws in a few “that’s crazy,” to which the girls fail to pick up he’s out of words to say.

well, everyone except you.

you’re quiet. in fact, the whole time, you haven’t said shit to him. you sit back and observe, occasionally typing on your macbook, or reapplying your lip combo. you didn’t have any words to say to him. even when your friends would talk to you, you gave them short answers and went back to listening to whatever was playing in your airpods. he could tell from that small interaction alone, you were the mean one out of your clique.

and fuck if that didn’t make him want you more. there was just something about mean women that made him want to break through their fake ass exteriors and watch them turn all soft and chummy for him.

blame it on his corruption kink.

gojo confirms his thoughts when they’re finally on their way to class. he kissed his girl goodbye and waved off her friends, to which they all (minus you) collectively cooed, “byeee gojooo!” which he found odd, but kept silent. he gave them a small nod before following his best friend.

they’re a few steps in the science building when the words slip before he can help it, ultimately cutting gojo’s rambling off, “yo, who was that girl?”

gojo glances at him before chuckling, “there was like seven of ‘em. which one?”

“the quiet one.”

it throws him off guard when gojo laughs hard. like, really hard. it attracts the attention of bystanders, who give him a crazy look but gojo ignores. as if they’d try to press him about his volume— the two were pretty adored around campus.

geto does find his reaction quite interesting, to which he cocks a brow and offers a chuckle of his own, “what?”

“oh, you definitely mean y/n,” when his laughter dies down, he finally answers. he lifts his shades to his hairline to swipe a tear. “she’s mean as fuck, bro.”

“right?!” geto laughs, tapping at gojo’s shoulder. it only charges gojo’s laughing fit back up, “i could tell from her vibe. she gives off those ‘men ain’t shit’ girlies on twitter. whole time, she’s probably laid up in bed with one.”

“you don’t even knowww,” gojo holds his shoulder and shakes him a bit. geto does in fact know, because he’s dealt with girls like her before. they’re always a good ass time. “she does men dirty. like, absolutely dogs them. heard one phone call too many.”

oh? even better than he expected. she’s probably the type that used to love hard before getting her heart trampled on and decided to seek revenge on all men. like, on some jennifer’s body shit. geto can’t help but smirk, “lemme see for myself. put me on.”

gojo falters in his step. his grip on geto’s shoulders loosen and his expression changes— not by much, but the once lighthearted smile switches to a skeptical one, “you serious?”

geto lets out a soft sigh, shrugging gojo’s hands off his shoulders. “don’t start asking too much. i did a favour for you and your girl, didn’t i?,” well, technically speaking it wasn’t like his comment had been the deciding factor for the two, but it did open gojo’s eyes. “you owe me one.”

“i don’t owe you shit,” gojo laughs, throwing his arm around geto anyways, “buuut you’re my boy and i’m not stingy. i’ll see what i can do, i know you’ve been getting a lil jealous of wifey and i.”

“shut the fuck up.” geto’s chuckles contradict his statement.

from that point on, it’s smooth sailing. gojo texts his girl asking if she’s seeing anybody. they have a little back and forth because his girlfriend assumes he’s asking for himself— which gojo gets all dramatic and throws geto under the bus for free. welp! it all worked out anyway since after he and gojo parted, you’d thought he was fine shyt. judging from your character, he doesn’t exactly take gojo’s words for what they are.

but he’ll take the opening, it’s as good as any.

time to plot.

☆ ☆ ☆

the second encounter was purely coincidental. and simultaneously embarrassing.

see, geto prides himself on his mysterious act— granted he was anything but. people see all that is gojo and automatically assume that geto has to be the cool one. it creates a perfect balance, no?

haven’t people heard of birds of a feather flock together?

so yes, he’s also a nerd. he typically enjoys spending his wednesday afternoons at dice board cafes because why not. it’s a chill, lowkey joint right off campus and not a lot of people gravitate towards, therefore the perfect spot to camp out before his evening lecture.

besides, his buddy choso works there and it gets him discounts. it isn’t the only reason he shows up, but it does help a lot on his pockets. being a student is awful, financially.

geto sips on his choco latte through a straw, browsing through the board games pamphlet as he decides what he’s going to play today. most of these games are pretty pointless if he doesn’t have an opponent, but he likes to think it helps develop his iq. he hears avenoir playing through the cafe and knows choso’s on aux.

who else could be playing this toxic ass shit?

he’s torn choosing between snakes and ladders or chess when he hears chimes at the front door, signalling somebody’s entered the establishment. he doesn’t think much of it, going on about minding his business when he hears choso say your name.

the latte enters the wrong tube and he chokes.

geto collects himself quickly, wiping any stray liquid past his mouth as his head snaps up. you’re propped up against the counter, and though he can’t see your face, he definitely recognizes your build. . . okay, yeah that sounds fucking pervy but if he stalked your page a few times, who’s business is it but his own? it’s not like you’d know. granted, he had got caught up liking one of your older photos but he took the like right back!

he debates on walking up to you. how would that even work without seeming desperate? you’ve been checking out all of his boxes so far— your face, body and attitude (question mark) are all tens. he does want to get to know you— at least be somebody in your life. but damn, why is he overthinking this? all he has to get up there and sweet talk you. he’s done this shit before.

“yo, suguru!”

shit.

purple orbs shift towards where his name was called, and lo and behold, there stands choso. and naturally, you look back to who was summoned, but god— social media does not do your face justice. he last seen you about a week ago, and had nothing but your instagram and his memory to rely on.

he makes his way to the counter and ignores you. doesn’t spare you a glance once— though he stands right at your side and watches you watching him through his peripheral. he nods at choso, “what’s up?”

choso, ever the genius, flicks his eyes between geto and you, before clearing his throat, “shoko just texted— somethin’ about a new client. how’s the studio looking?”

“booked all week,” geto answers truthfully, and he notices you’ve shifted your gaze, “little to no openings. why though?”

choso hums, jolting down online orders into a little notebook, “not even for a special friend?”

geto squints his eyes at that. there isn’t anybody he’d call a special friend that hasn’t already been booked or wouldn’t have his number to squeeze in an appointment. granted, he is a dnd warrior but even his friends know of that quirk of his, “depends. who’s the special friend?”

“me.” and he feels his heart skip a beat. fuck. he tilts his head over to the side, and good lord, your face card gave every girl on campus runs for their money. seriously, your facial features complimented you in a way that told aphrodite— the textbook definition of beauty— to go fuck herself, and hard.

“oh?” geto cocks a brow, and lets his eyes roam up and down your frame. shameless, yes, but he has a reputation to uphold. your rest in face makes his own look like child’s play, “didn’t realize we were on special friends basis.”

you click your tongue, “didn’t realize we were on lurking spam accounts but pretend we don’t exist the next day basis either,” you quip right back, picking at the white bow glued to your acrylics.

sassy. geto chuckles, now fully turning his body around to face you. you match his movements, and he toys with a ring on his middle finger, “guess you got me all figured out,” he pauses, shifting his gaze to choso, who’s already eyeing him. “sounds like you wanted me to reach out.”

“boy please,” you scoff, pausing your nail inspection. you let your hand hang, “you choked earlier because you heard my name. that corny nonchalant act isn’t the flex you’re thinking it is,” a huff escapes your lips, and geto feels blood rushing to his face. “your lurking ass was months deep into my page just a week ago— did you find any men ain’t shit vibes from the photo dump?”

choso stifles a laugh, and when geto looks at him, it dies into a cough. well damn, you really didn’t hold anything back. read him like a book actually— and it doesn’t help that gojo can’t keep his mouth shut for shit. it widens the grin on his face. he thinks he likes you.

“well,” geto smirks, “can’t say i have— means there’s still an opening.”

you furrow your brows, “oh? an opening to what exactly?”

“an appointment, of course,” he shrugs, running a hand through his hair. his locks are getting in his face, but the messy look always gets him compliments. might as well shoot his shot, “you know. . .” leaning his chin into the palm of his hand, “for a special friend.”

his double entendre definitely doesn’t go unnoticed by you. he watches how, despite the mean mugging, there’s a glint of mischief in your eyes. you’re squinting just slightly, almost as if you were weighing out the pros and cons. geto won’t break the eye contact first— he’s on a mission. he hopes the tired eyes look will be on his side this time.

tattoo or dick appointment— he would one hundred percent make an opening for you. anything to get his hands on your body.

“are we still talking about the tattoo parlour or . . .”

both you and he turn to choso, who’s watching the situation unfold. just count on him to ruin the mood, whether the obliviousness was feigned or not. choso tightens his brows at the look geto shoots him, “what?”

“i’m gonna head out,” you grab at your handbag, hopping of the seat. nicely played choso. you gather your items and slip them in your purse, sliding a few bucks across the counter. choso grabs the bills and stick them in the tip jar, nodding at her. “catch you in poly sci?”

“if you don’t skip again.” choso snorts and you flip him off, slinging your bag over your shoulder. you turn on your heel and make your way towards the exit, ultimately dismissing geto. that doesn’t feel too nice, he should probably stop that bad habit.

he rises to his feet before he can help it. his hand grabs at your wrist and notices how much smaller it seems in comparaison to his, and he hates the next words that leave his mouth, “what about me?”

you glance down at his hold on you, before looking back up at him, “what about you?” your face says everything your lips haven’t— you’re getting the ick.

he wants to wince. okay, yeah that was corny, “when do i get to see you?”

you drag out a mini hum, your gaze dancing over his silver chain around his collarbone, “dunno. you have my socials so i assume in the next hour.”

he tilts his head to the side, and the pad of his thumb grazes over your smooth skin. he doesn’t fail to notice the way your hand stiffens under his touch, “so if i slide in your dms in the next hour, i can expect an answer?”

a snort leaves your chest, and he can’t tell if it’s a condescending one or an amused one. what he does know, however, is that he’s going to be seeing you sometime soon. you take your hand back into your possession before laying it in the dead centre of his chest, pushing him back just slightly, “i’ll see you around, geto.”

his eyes trail over your figure, every step you take out of the establishment, slightly starstruck by the entirety of you— your boldness. the thrill he was beginning to feel felt like a high. he hasn’t met anybody this entertaining in a while.

“you’re so fucking corny.” he thinks he hears choso insult him from behind. he doesn’t pay him any mind, despite the middle finger that tips towards the ceiling. partynextdoor blasts in the cafe, specifically freak in you, and he hates how he finds himself relating to the lyrics,

room full of beautiful women but he only wants one.

☆ ☆ ☆

“you stalking me, pretty?”

“sure,” you nod your head, raking through the items on the clothing rack. you don’t spare him a single glance, picking a top off the rack and inspecting it, “if stalking means visiting the busiest thrift store on the busiest hour in the busiest city.”

geto lets out a small laugh, shoving his hands in the pockets of his cargos. you make him feel like a nuisance, like he’s a pest wasting your time. ironic, seeing as he wasn’t that much of a bother just last night, when you’d been indulging him in your inbox, “of course you’re the thrifting type.”

you pause your actions, price tag in your fingers as you side eye him through locks of your hair, “and you’re not?”

“didn’t mean it in a bad way, sweetheart.” geto shrugs, pulling off a cropped baby tee and bringing towards you. it has sequins sewn in the material, the gems writing out juicy couture. “this would suit you— belly piercing and whatnot.”

the top is cute, there was no denying so. a pretty shade of pink that suited your complexion, but letting his ego inflate bigger than it already was out of the question. he could tell your thought process from the judgmental look you offered, “oh god—you’re one of those fake ass, streetwearing fashionistas, aren’t you?”

geto blinks a few times, before letting out a sincere laugh. he’s been called a multitude of things before, but that one was new, “you got all that from me suggesting you buy this juicy couture tee? don’t all girls fiend over this vintage shit?”

“it’s that corny ass personality of yours,” you grab the shirt, throwing it in your cart. he wants to make a comment on that, but you beat him to the chase, “the phoney nonchalant act, the streetwear, your insta aesthetic— you’re so scripted.”

“my insta aesthetic?” he repeats, and doesn’t miss a step to catch up to you. your hands are back on the handle of your shopping cart, and if the way his elbows bump into your shoulders bothers you, you don’t make point in commenting on it. “who’s the lurker now, hm?”

you roll your eyes, pushing the strolley ahead, “don’t let it get to your big ass head. your feed screams you’re those toxic ass brent faiyaz wannabes,” he watches your fingertips rake through more clothings that pass your way, before you shoot him a glance, “let me guess— he showed on your spotify wrapped.”

his silence speaks volumes, and you click your tongue, “see? scripted.”

“and what about you?” geto counters when you make a pit stop. you pull away from your cart when a denim skirt catches your eye. you lift the skirt up to your eyes, before looking over your shoulder, cocking a brow.

“what about me?”

“the tweet reposts, the song choices for your highlights, the whole spiritual baddie persona,” he presses behind you, his chest meeting your back. he rests his chin atop your head, purple eyes landing on the clothing article that’s lowering in your hold, “if my page gives brent then yours definitely gives jhene.”

you’re mute for a second, and you chuck the skirt into the cart. you pull away from beneath him, spinning on your feet to face him, and you’ve got a scowl on your lips, “what’s wrong with jhene?”

“and you call me the toxic one.” geto pokes at your cheek. you swipe his hand away, and he laughs, “don’t get me wrong though— she makes good music. but let’s not act like she’s all innocent either,” his gaze lowers to your glossy lips, the fullness of the pair hypnotic, “a real freak. should i call you my pussy fairy?”

“do not,” you reply, weaving around him to make your way back to your cart. geto laughs, snatching a few things of the racks before dumping them in your stuff. you give him a deadpanned look and he whistles it off, feigning ignorance. “jhene’s a lovergirl. thought i was part of the men ain’t shit community.”

“you’re not gonna let that go, are you?” geto sighs. he owes gojo another thump in the head.

you roll your eyes, “thank your homeboy for that.”

“two things can be true at once,” geto fiddles with the hem of his jacket. he’s back at walking step by step with you, and you haven’t told him to fuck off yet, so he’s going to milk the opportunity out. “you’re mean but a lovergirl. you hate men but a real freak with them. right or wrong?”

you halter in your steps, and geto’s now a few steps ahead of you, so he looks over his shoulder to meet your bored expression, “i know you’re not trying to read me in the middle of value village.”

“no better time than the present,” he smiles, one that creases a dimple in his cheeks. “come on up— what are you waiting for?”

you stare at him some more, inhaling sharply, “mind you, i never invited you to join me,” you shake your head but comply regardless. cute, looks like you’re enjoying his company more than you’re letting on.

so he graces you his presence some more. he shops along with you, sneaks clothes into your cart when you’re distracted and asks you stupid questions. it’s a good time— to him at least, being able to get to know you some more without interruptions. naturally, you feign that his company is the bane of your existence, but he doesn’t miss the twitch of your lips when he taps his card into the reader at the check out.

hell yeah he’s got money to spend and is willing to show off if it means getting on your good side.

it’s only after he helps you bag your shit into your car, that he realizes this is where the both of you part ways. it annoys him slightly, but he doesn’t need to overstep his boundaries. he closes your trunk and makes his way to the driver’s side, where you’re already buckled up.

he taps at your window and the glass rolls down all the way, to which he leans forward. he’s in your line of sight now and you sigh, tilting your head sideways, “what?”

“do i get a goodbye kiss?” geto teases, honest, the boyish smirk he offers accentuating the playful undertone. the last thing he expects is you shifting in your seat, pushing yourself up and peaking your head out the window.

his smirk drops, brows jumping to his hairline. you’re really fucking close now, and for a split second he thinks you’re actually going to do it. he can see the flecks of colours swimming in your orbs, the tip of your nose bumps into his and your breath fans his cupid’s bow.

fuck, you smell really good. he bets you taste even better. his mouth is running dry, mindlessly darting his tongue out to wet his own lips. he doesn’t realize he’s let himself lean into your space, eyes narrowing on your mouth parting over his.

he’s pulled out of his trance when two fingers press at his forehead and push. he blinks his lashes, snapping back to reality as you sit back into your seat. you look amused— as if you’d played the funniest game right in his face and he’d been the star player.

“i’ll see you around, geto.”

and you drive off.

☆ ☆ ☆

“come back in a few weeks for a checkup. we’ll make sure the healing process is running smoothly. i’ll catch you soon.”

he lets out a tired sigh when the door finally closes, slumping into his seat and shuts his eyes. he’s exhausted— having woken up early for lectures and labs to back to back appointments with clients. this time around, the parlour is always booked and busy. students find it the perfect timing to get tatted to let it heal before showing it off in the summer.

it’s smart for them but idiotic for him. midterms are up, and the only time he has to study is in between appointments. he slides off his gloves and drags his seat towards his desk, redirecting his attention focus towards the blinding screen.

he feels a headache building at his temple, sipping at his iced coffee to keep him energized. contradicting, sure, but you didn’t have the luxury to be a beggar and a chooser when you were a full time student. the parlour he ran resided in his loft apartment, on the second floor. he enjoyed the comfort of his own home, spacious room and wide windows compared to outside stores.

his cat, nanako, purrs at his feet and he feels his heart swell. if there was one weakness he had in this world, it’d be her. he picks her up from the floor, presses her at his rib cage and nuzzles his nose in her fur.

“hi baby,” geto coos, and nanako lets out a sound. he continues to coddle her, fluffing her fur and rubbing at her ears, “it’s been pretty lively in here, hasn’t it? i knowww,” he coos, and as if nanako understands his words, she makes a pitiful sound that slightly shatters his heart.

geto decides to place her on his lap, her company serving plenty of motivation as he rolls back to his desk. he grabs the remote to his built-in speakers, turning the volume higher, before locking back in. exams are full of crap, and words are starting to jumble on his screen— he’s beginning to contemplate if this education shit is even worth the stress.

he’s an hour deep in jolting notes down on his ipad when he hears a knock at his front door. he scrunches his brows and glances at his agenda— he isn’t due for an appointment until another few hours. he sits it out, starting to believe he’d maybe imagined the sound. he knows it isn’t gojo since he’s celebrating an anniversary with his girl, and any other friend would’ve called to let him know they’re outside.

probably some jehovah witness shit, he thinks to himself, fingers hovering over his speaker remote to crank the volume back up. he turns back to his laptop screen, petting nanako mindlessly when his ipad flashes an instagram notification.

yourstruly.yn: open up

he jumps to his feet, chair rolling back. nanako flies to his desk, landing on all fours as she hisses at him for his suddenness. geto grabs her and kisses her ear, “sorry baby,” before sitting her on the floor. she walks off to her mini bean bag right at the foot of his desk, and he senses an attitude coming from her.

damn, he’d forgotten he squeezed you in last night in the midst of his sweet talking. that was truly a stupid move, he was already behind on studying, and because he likes to think with his head instead of his actual head, he’d fall even further behind.

he checks around the flat— picks up stray wrappers and fixes throw pillows, arranges his sheets. he was a clean man for the most part— he had been so distracted with his studies that there wasn’t much to dirty in the first place. his candles had already been lit so he knew the place smelled fine. he’s pretty positive his loft is clean enough to leave a good first impression.

he fixes loose hairs and straightens out his hoodie and sweats. thank fuck he’d showered not too long ago— he’s beginning to understand why his mother was always so insistent on being clean in case of random pop ups.

when he does finally open the door, there you stood. it was pretty chilly outside this time around, so he wasn’t surprised by the harsh wind flowing in and the clutch of your coat in your hold. your nose began reddening, and you sniffled, scowling from the cold.

you’re so cute, he sends you a smile, “hey.”

“hi,” you replied, sniffling again. “you ever planning on letting me in?”

“dunno,” he crosses his arms over his chest. he leans against the doorframe, ignoring the way he was starting to feel the frosty wind setting in his bones, “maybe if you ask nicely.”

you shoot him a deadpanned look, “move.”

“no.” geto smiles, “try again.”

“move, now.” a small pout is starting to form on your lips. he really liked testing your patience, since it always seemed to run low. you must’ve met your match— because geto always had time to fuck around.

“close, but not quite.”

“oh my goddd,” you groan, and that’s when he decides to let up. it really is colder than a bitch outside and he’d already kept you waiting while tidying up. he lets out a chuckle when you turn to the side, “i’m leaving— too damn cold for this.”

“alright, i’m playing,” geto widens the door. you stop your movements and glare at him. he aims an arm towards the inside of his loft, “don’t go, come in.”

you grumble something beneath your breath but comply, walking right past him. he follows behind you, shutting the door close and is immediately greeted back with warmth. you slip your shoes off and place them on the rack, before stepping in further into his apartment.

he slides his hands into his sweatpants’ pockets, catching up to you in the living room. your head is tilted upwards as you inspect the place though you remain in place. he stands beside you, bumping his shoulder into your arm, “so? up to your standards?”

you’re quiet for a while, letting your eyes roam around as the words build in your mind, “it’s typical,” you shrug but don’t elaborate. you’ve been staring at an art piece he’d done first year when he was fried out of his mind. you shift your gaze back to him, “where do i put my shit?”

“you can leave it in my bedroom, if that’s fine.” geto suggests and you nod wordlessly, to which he leads you to the second floor. he’s walking up the stairs and prays he doesn’t fall flat on his face— his socks can be a real bitch sometimes.

you both make it to his bedroom, with you trailing a little behind. he grabs a hanger from his mobile clothing rack, stretching an arm out to you, “i’ll hang your jacket here.”

you slide off the coat from your frame and hand it to him, to which he hangs on the rack. you circle around his bedroom with your tote on your shoulder, while he makes his way back to next to his desk. it’s pretty quiet for the most part, besides the music playing gently in the background.

your gaze lands on the cluttered items on his desk, noticing the half empty cup of coffee, notebooks and ipad on display, “did i catch you at a bad time?”

“honestly? yeah,” geto shrugs, before motioning at your tote bag. you slip it off and hand it to him, to which he sits at his nightstand, “but it’s my fault anyway, i squeezed you in a busy time. you know how exam season gets.”

“i can always reschedule,” you offer, checking your phone screen for the date, “it’s not that deep.”

“i don’t want you to leave,” geto slumps back into his seat and heaves out a sigh. he spins the chair around to catch you giving him a flat look. he leans back in his seat and spreads his thighs, smirking, “would you stay?”

“depends. are you going to be studying?” you quip, crossing your arms back to your chest.

geto ponders on what to say next. it’s not like he doesn’t want to tatt you up, but he really is caught in a bind. he also doesn’t want you to leave— not when he’s been wanting to see you since the last time he’d seen you. does he prioritize his wants or his needs?

he hums, “i’ll do whatever you want me to.”

you roll your eyes, scoffing as you make your way to his nightstand. for a second, he thinks you’re getting ready to leave and a weird feeling of disappointment settles in his gut. instead, you grab the bag and sit on the edge of his bed, pulling out your macbook and crossing your legs.

he smiles at that, “attagirl.”

“corny.” you mumble, chewing on your bottom lip as you begin typing away.

there’s a comfortable silence that fills the room. he’s back to browsing through his lecture notes, noting down valuable information and memorizing terminology. you don’t say anything either, but the sound of your nails typing at your keyboard blends well with his r&b playlist playing. sounds like you’re writing down an essay or report, depending on whatever your major is.

about half an hour into the silence, does he decide to break it. he looks over his shoulder to where you’re settled on his bed, “you good?” he checks up on you, and you let out a burnt out sigh. he knows exactly how you’re feeling.

“i guess,” you huff, twirling your necklace. your eyes are stuck on your screen, brows creasing into a scowl, “this shit is frying my brain though.”

“what are you writing?” he indulges, dropping his apple pen back onto his desk and spins in his seat to face you. maybe he’s also in due of a break— he’d rather be talking to you anyway.

“this crim report,” you answer, picking at your nail, “it’s not exactly hard but mad lengthy. i have to write a ten page report based on this article and how it contradicts societal norms.”

“ten pages?” geto whistles, rubbing at his chin. he’s settled deeper in his seat, naturally manspreading. you’re much better than him, he would’ve given up before even starting— reports were not his thing, “how far are you in?”

“i started this morning,” you hum, “so i’m four pages in.”

geto nods, “and when is it due?”

“tomorrow night.” you push your laptop off your lap. you close the screen shut and stretch out your legs, releasing a breathy moan as you relax your thighs. “i’ll do this shit later— my head’s starting to hurt.”

geto swears he’s never been so in sync in thought. he dismisses the idea of studying the second you had closed your macbook. probably a bad idea but at the moment, he couldn’t care any less, “want some entertainment?”

you cock a brow, “don’t say no stupid shit.”

“twenty one questions,” geto speaks nonetheless and finds himself beaming brightly when you scoff, “can’t a guy want to get to know you better?”

you ease yourself on his bed, slumping into his sheets as you exhale. you shift onto your side— a sinful curve at your side— tucking your knees and lean your head into your palm, “oh fuck off,” a breathless laugh and nanako makes her presence known, hopping right by you in the space between your body and the edge of the bed, “didn’t know you had a cat. she’s cute.”

“how’d you know she was a she?” geto wonders, surprised just slightly by how welcoming nanako was around you. she purred when you stroke at her fur, nuzzling further into your chest. nanako hated everyone— especially gojo, who unironically visited the most.

“instinct,” you shrugged but there’s a faint smile on your lips. not directed towards him, but his baby, “i also have a cat— he’s a fucking menace though.”

that’s one thing in common already, “like mother like son,” geto grins lazily when you flip him off mindlessly, and when you raise nanako in both your hands, he’s ready to warn you she isn’t a big fan of sudden movements— but when she mewls, the same sound she makes when geto brings home a new toy, the words die down in his throat.

he observes you both silently. you cradle nana as if she were a newborn infant, adoring and loving yet simultaneously careful and steadily. you’re cooing, calling her a sweet girl and rubbing at her ear, and nanako accepts you rather easily— too easily.

“woah.” was this those non-sexual turn ons people spoke about? for somebody so mean, you were oddly gentle with pets. he liked that— really liked that, so much that he pulls his phone out and snaps a photo of you two. but of course, because the universe loves to see him fumble, the flash goes off.

your head snaps to the side and he freezes. you narrow your eyes at him, slowly lowering nanako, “did you just—”

“so!” geto cuts you off, chucking his phone back onto his desk. it makes a loud cluttering sound, damn near knocks his drink all over, but ignores it, “my turn. what’s your cat’s name?”

“milo. and don’t cut me off—”

“milo the menace,” he cuts you off regardless, not wanting to have to decipher just what exactly possessed him to do that. he’s never done so, and he wasn’t about to explain why he’d done it just now. deflecting king! “i need to see the little guy. got any pics?”

you huff, extending a hand behind you to find your phone. when you clutch onto the device, you swing your legs off the bedside, always careful with nanako clinging to your lap. you lay her down on the floor, much to her dismay, before making your way towards him.

his eyes are stuck on your body before his mind can tell him to stop. not like it mattered much, your own eyes glued to your phone screen as you searched for the pictures he’d asked. you’ve got a matching tracksuit on— though the hoodie is cropped, thus exposing your navel piercing. he’d always had a thing for those, the pretty good jewel dangling below the button.

it didn’t help that your thong straps sat atop your waist.

he spreads his legs further open, and you stop right in between. for a moment, you’re stuck on your phone, and geto really wants to get those thighs straddling him. you look delectable— he’d pin your knees to your damn ears, sprawled on your back, and eat you out until you pleaded him to stop.

your hair was pulled back into a bun, and from this angle, he spotted scripture at the column of your neck. there was wording inked in arabic, and he made a mental note to ask you what it meant later.

geto leans back into his seat when you fold forwards, and he gets a good whiff of your vanilla scented perfume, tingling his senses in the best way, “found it?”

you nod your head, swiping through your gallery, “yeah, my bad,” you have a folder named ‘mimi’ and as expected, was filled off candid photos of your cat. he pays attention as you slide your finger on your screen, selfies of you both in the morning passing by.

“cute,” he isn’t talking about the cat, and his gaze flicks from the screen to your face. there’s still a considerate amount of space between you both, but he can see your eye colour much clearer this close up. you blink your lashes at him and he smirks, “anything else you wanna show me?”

you sniff, “don’t be gross.”

“i meant of milo,” geto definitely didn’t mean of milo. you cock a brow skeptically, and he mirrors the look, though the smile on his face grows, “what a cute lil thing,” his voice lowers and his words trail off. there’s a beat of a pause for a while, and his gaze falls on the plumpness of your lips, “you gonna let me pet your kitty?”

another beat of silence. you’re staring at his lips, and he wonders what you’re thinking. he can tell you’ve picked up on what he’s laying down (hopefully you in the next few minutes) but he can’t tell what your next move will be.

“depends. . .” a soft whisper, and he feels your breath fanning over his cupid’s bow. you flick your eyes back at him, and he finally understands the whole siren eyes shit. through lidded eyes, your stare is intense— simultaneously pulling him in closer while pushing him back. you’re toying with him, and the hand he slides up from your thigh to your ass is enough fuel. “you any good?”

he brings a second hand to the other ass cheek, and urges you onto his lap. you comply, looping your arms at the back of his neck. he feels your nails grazing at his scalp and he holds back a lethal shudder. your weight feels amazing against him— his hard on poking and making its presence well aware.

“i’d like to think i am,” he knows he is, but playing humble always goes a long way. he lets his hands run over the cup of your ass, trails back up to your hips, and slides a finger beneath the thong strap. when he snaps the material at your skin, your back arches and you press your chest against his own.

“well,” you exhale when he noses into the crook of your neck, right above your tattoo. he’s littering wet kisses at your hot skin, your taste ever so sweet against his tongue. god, you must taste divine. at your jugular, he’s able to imprint your perfume into his mind. “only one way to find out.”

geto hums at that, relishing in the way you moan at a particular suck, and focus on nibbling at that spot once more. you’re tilting your head for easier access, hips grinding against his own for better friction. your hands are soft and cautious— they trail from his nape down to his chest, and further down to his waistband.

he’s on go, ready for whatever timing you’re on. though, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out by the way your fingertip traces right above his pelvis, that you’re both on the same page. he drags his lips from the column of your neck up to your jaw, and stops right above your parted lips.

he has another cocky remark on the tip of his tongue, in typical suguru fashion, but you beat him to the chase, glossy lips pressing against his. the kiss is short and definitely leaves him wanting more when you pull back as soon as you’d leaned in— but you’re a mere centimetre away.

you whisper, not before another kiss, “don’t disappoint me, suguru.”

and he’s never ran into bed so fast.

☆ ☆ ☆

the door slams shut.

he’s left with a painfully hard reminder in his sweats that he fucked up bad. he thinks he dissociated a little between the labia flapping to the coat zipping. it’s only when he notices that instead of hearing lip smacking sounds, he hears bryson tiller’s lame ass (no shade, his ego is simply wounded), that you really left.

fuck.

geto rushes back to his bedroom, the walk of shame up the steps enough to make him want to jump off— as he takes out his phone, immediately goes through his contact list and presses on the name. it rings twice before the call gets picked up.

“yooo!”

“you still busy?” geto asks, voice hoarse as he flops down on the edge of the bed— his now empty bed. damn.

“nah, just dropped off wifey,” gojo replies. he hears music playing faintly in the back, as well as the sounds of honking. he must still be in the car, “why, what’s up?”

“i fucked up.” geto sighs, running a hand over his face.

“oh?” he isn’t surprised to find out gojo’s surprised. he’s still surprised by how the events turned out and it’s barely been ten minutes, let alone five. “say no more, i’m on my way.”

geto hangs up. he throws the phone away, before falling flat onto his bed. he picks up your scent on his sheets, your warmth slowly disappearing— another painful reminder he messed up. where he’s expecting a wet patch of anything on his duvets, he finds nothing. zip. nada.

his eyes fall shut, “shit.”

☆ ☆ ☆

“and that’s pretty much the gist of it all.”

he exhales a cloud of smoke. more silence. geto’s starting to get sick of all this silence. it was radio silence with you and now even more radio silence from gojo. his hand never stops to rub at nanako, who’s been serving as a cuddling partner in this grand moment of crisis. the only person to ever have his back.

so, geto knew that confiding in his best friend this secret of his would be risky for a multitude of reasons. for starters, geto never fucks up. this would be ultimate blackmail content for him, and geto honestly doesn’t blame him. for two, he was just giving gojo shit about never having eaten pussy. that’s just downright humiliating. and for three, he has a girlfriend who he doesn’t keep anything from. on top of that— his girlfriend is friends with the main culprit here.

overall a bad idea. he does it nonetheless, because satoru is his best friend despite it all. he isn’t too shocked when the silence is filled with bellyaching laughter, though.

“wait— i’m cryinggg,” more laughter. gojo’s now kicked his feet off the couch and is doubling forward. his shades bounce off his head and hit the leg of the coffee table. he doesn’t pause his laughing fit one bit, not even when geto throws a throw pillow his way.

it bounces off his big head and geto scoffs, bringing the joint back to his lips, “oh fuck off.”

“my fault man,” gojo apologizes though he doesn’t sound apologetic. he’s leaning forward to grab his shades back, and he’s back to swiping stray tears. “that was a good laugh— shit.”

geto hums at that, extending the blunt towards him,“glad to hear my misery has brought you entertainment.”

“see, you get it!” gojo jokes, welcoming the joint. seems like he got cocky, however, his laughing mood not quite over as he inhales. he quickly chokes on the smoke, which fades back into cackling, “oh shit—”

geto sneers, annoyance quickly rising, “quit fucking around or pass it back.” he was being pissy, yes, but his pride had been curb stomped. and it hadn’t even been an hour ago!

“nah, nah, i’m good,” gojo waves him off, despite his free hand tapping at his chest. he collects himself soon enough, and takes another hit. this time it’s successful. geto lowkey hoped it would get caught in his throat again.

“sooo,” gojo drags out, melting into the couch, “what now.”

“what now?” geto parrots.

“what’s the next move?” gojo elaborates, fingertip tapping at the blunt, and ashes fall into the tray. the end of the stick crumbles in the same way geto’s ego had earlier. “you’re gonna keep letting her think you suck at giving head?”

geto throws his head back and sighs tiredly, “what else is there to do?” he hears the sound of sizzling in the background, “i fumbled bad, bro. you don’t think she already posted about me in her girls’ private story?” more sizzling and exhaling, “i’m the storytime of the day!”

he feels gojo nudge his thigh with his foot. he looks back and the joint is presented to him. he gladly accepts it.

“what even happened?” gojo wonders. and oh boy, if that isn’t the question of the day. geto is still trying to find the answer to that. had it been out of nervousness? had he gotten too cocky? had it been her?

“i honestly wish i could answer that,” geto slips the roach into his mouth. “i didn’t feel nervous until after i realized she wasn’t fazed,” he drags out a hit and ghost inhales, “maybe it was a sign from above— to shut the fuck up sometimes.”

“maybe,” gojo snorts, throwing his legs over geto’s lap. nanako hisses at the intrusion, but the white haired man ignores her, “don’t let yourself go out sad like this. hit her back up— whatever happened to loving challenges?”

“what kind of fucked up ass challenge is this?” geto mumbles, mainly to himself.

“if i was in your shoes— which i’d never be,” because he’s gojo, he feels the need to add, “i’d put my pride aside and talk to her. like no homo shit, but you’re a great eater— yeah, no, i’m taking that back instantly.”

geto looks as horrified as he feels, “quickly, even.”

of course, gojo laughs but proceeds, “the point is, you know you’re good at it. everybody fucks up once in a while— don’t let it define you though. think of it as a minor setback for a major comeback— if you care enough, you’ll put your pride aside and do something about it. if you’re this down about it, then it must mean something to you.”

geto can’t tell anymore whether gojo’s talking about the failed pussy eating attempt or you. regardless, he knows there’s truth to his words. has to be the weed talking.

“and who made you the pussy connoisseur?” geto snorts, pressing the bud of his joint in the tray. it sizzles weakly as he kills it, starting to feel that high course through his veins.

gojo sighs dreamily, “why my lovely lady, of course.”

“looks like she taught you well,” geto relaxes himself into the tight space of the couch, settling nanako on his chest. it’s now his turn to nudge gojo with his foot, his sock-cladded toe digging at his jaw. “woulda never expected this from a rookie just a few months ago.”

“well duh,” gojo swipes his foot away, “i aced that course. got my phD in cunningulusophy and all. even won valedictorian.”

geto laughs, resting his lids. he was starting to feel sleepy, indica will do that to you, “enroll me in whatever class you took— i may need to slut myself out for extra credit. my prof’s a tough nut to bust.”

“intro to munch 101,” gojo nods his head, shutting his eyes close as well. there’s a comfortable silence that fills the air for a while. and despite the fact that his sight manipulated, he could hear the smirk dripping off his tone, “if you ever need a letter of recommendation, i got you— alumni’s honour.”

“oh fuck off,” a mixed harmony of laughter and vibrating chests.

☆ ☆ ☆

fun fact: suguru geto loves showers.

the aroma of cleanliness enhanced by thick fog. the scorching water droplets trickling down his skin, the vulnerability of his nakedness inside these four walls. he strangely feels most at ease, most raw in this moment of solitude.

he’s able to gather himself too. there isn’t much to accomplish in a shower once you’ve gotten rid of the day’s dirt. so, he likes to take the opportunity to think. to think deep and hard.

his mind’s all scrambled up. it’s been about three days since you were last in his apartment, two days since he’d thought about it, and a day since he last seen you (granted it’d been on your story, virtually, but still).

this has been the biggest feat he’s faced in a while. if he recaps it, this is what’s he gotten: he invited you over. you came the next day. he didn’t cater to you the sole reason you came. you didn’t mind. you both studied for a bit. he asked about your cat. you ended up on his lap. he ended up in bed with you. you ended up leaving with a chunk of his dignity.

that didn’t explain shit, but it did remind him of his failure. it reminded him that he’d finally met his match. it reminded him he needs to start backing his shit up. it reminded him of how good you smelled and tasted down there. it reminded him of how pretty you looked.

his cock twitches and he glances down. it also reminds him he never ended up cumming, too engrossed in his anxiety to jerk one out.

he feels as though the glass doors of his shower protect him from reality. he’s hard, though mortified, but still hard. he’d spent a long time (two days) suppressing the memory away, but there was no way to mistaken your taste on his tongue. how sweet you smelled. how soft you felt—

geto fists at his dick before he can help it. his free hand plants at the wall before him, and he works his wrist. he twists at his shaft slowly and closes his eyes— behind his lids are photographic memories of you on his lap. memories of you on his bed. memories of the scent of your panties. memories of your tits in his mouth.

sure, you’d made more sounds off the foreplay for the foreplay— but that didn’t take away how turned on he’d been. how his dick twitched in his boxers. how he’d humped the mattress. how he’d moan in your cunt.

“y/n,” geto moans your name, sinful yet hushed, his hand working faster. his thumb grazes his over slit and his gut drowns in heat. he wants a redo. he deserves a redo— you deserved a redo. “fuckkkk,”

next time, he’ll get it right. and if he doesn’t, then he’ll want to try again and again and again— until it ends with your cunt clenching around his tongue and his face sprayed vigorously in your essence. until your thighs tremble around his face, your hand clawing at his hair and your back arched off his bed. until his name bounces off his walls and echoes so loudly his neighbours complain.

he wants a redo.

he jerks back as he paints the tiles white. the joints in his hand ache, the water from the shower head getting colder. geto pants heavily, chest heaving as his load is released from him. his cum drips from the wall and into the drain at his feet— but his dick is far from well spent. if he spends another hour in the shower, it’s nobody’s business but his own.

suguru geto loves showers.

☆ ☆ ☆

“oh. you actually showed.”

“redo,” geto pants, having sprinted from his apartment. he’d spent the next three days after his shower incident wallowing some more— at some point, it just annoyed him. though slightly underwhelming, he was on his phone in bed a few minutes ago, going through his camera roll when he’d seen that picture he took of you and nanako. his feet guided him to his car before he could help it. choso helped him out with the address.

“redo?” you parrot his words, leaning against your doorframe. you crossed your arms over your chest, and it’s only then he noticed your appearance— flimsy camisole and pink lace panties. fuck, he wants a redo now.

“i want a redo.” geto repeats, but is quickly hit with a gust of wind. he hadn’t brought a jacket with him in the midst of his impulse, and goosebumps were beginning to form at his skin. he shoots his shot, “you ever planning on letting me in?” talk about deja vu.

“dunno,” you play along, eyes narrowing. “maybe if you ask nicely.”

swallow your pride, he hears gojo somewhere in the back of his mind. he shakes that thought off quickly. this desperation had to be bigger than a pride issue— he was ready to get on his knees and beg her to let him in. pride? that had been drained to the sewers the second he busted all over his shower days ago.

“lemme in and i’ll make it up to you,” geto tries instead, taking a step closer, “please?”

that seemed to be the correct answer as you push open the door to your apartment further. you turn your back and geto lets himself drink up your backside— he hadn’t seen it last time but you had dimples sitting right above your perky ass. he watches your hips sway left and right, and even tilt your head back, a smirk etched on your face, “you comin’?”

you will be, “cute.” his lips twitch into a small smile, and closes the door behind him.

☆ ☆ ☆

fool him once? shame on him.

geto doesn’t allow himself to make the same mistakes twice. if one fuck up is enough to tear him down for a week straight then why the hell would he do it again?

you’re sprawled on your back, legs spread with enough space to fit his body in between. his hands plant on either side of your face, his bulge pushed up against your core. he feels your warmth through these layers of clothes, and he rolls his hips greedily, feeling himself already grow addicted. your chin is raised high, lids blown open as you stare at him all doe-eyed.

his brows pinch in the centre of his forehead. that faux look of innocence you’re offering is doing wonders to his dick. your tits sit beautifully beneath your top, arms back on him as you pull him in closer, and he lets himself fall prey to you. for a moment, the tip of his nose bumps into yours, lips ghosting over the other, hips colliding to meet yours.

“mhm, that’s it.” you let out a sigh, throwing your head back into your pillows. there’s an opening to your neck calling his name, and geto wastes no time to latch his lips there. he slips a hand beneath your tank top, fingernails grazing over your skin to creep up to your mounds. he flicks a thumb over the bud and you sigh blissfully again— he then cups the flesh.

he loves the way you squirm when he kisses down your body, “i got you, pretty,” stripped from your cami, his lips leave open mouthed marks all over your skin. from the column of your neck, to your breasts, down your torso and past your navel, “let me take care of you.” the lower he gets, the more intense your rawness reeks— and it’s a damned good smell.

he lands right above your clothed pelvis, and he inhales sharply. he won’t make the same mistake this time, he can feel it. there’s something lingering in the air, something indescribable— but he’s confident he won’t. because when he skips your cunt in favour to pamper your inner thighs, dragging his wet tongue all over erogenous zones, he spots dampening right where your clit would be.

bingo.

your hand cradles his hair, and the other props your body up by the elbow. he glances up at you, cock throbbing against your mattress. your beauty still renders him speechless— runs his throat dry and makes his tongue feel heavy. he doesn’t want to decipher what this means either, and decides to conclude he’s simply thirsty for you.

“suguru,” you call at him. he blinks and the hand in his hair snakes down his neck, and pushes him deeper. his nose nudges at your throbbing clit, and his tongue peeks out of his mouth to lick at the damp material before he can help it. two fingers hook at your panties and push them to the side, revealing glistening folds. your slick drips between your crack and stains your sheets. he thinks he hears his stomach growl a little.

another swipe of his tongue, this time in contact with the raw you, and a breathless moan rips from you, “don’t disappoint me this time.”

and he feasts.

☆ ☆ ☆

gojo’s woken up to a notification from his phone.

it’s still pretty late— or maybe early, and his pretty girlfriend is miles away in lalaland. she snores softly, cuddling into his side, and gojo’s ready to cuss out whoever dares potentially meddle with his girl’s sleep. he’s starting to get grumpy.

when his phone undergoes face recognition, he lowers the brightness immediately. he swipes through his notification center and notices an attachment sent by geto.

now that peeks his interest. he presses on the message.

suguboo: [1 attachment]

suguboo: passed intro2munch101 with an A+ 🫡

gojo can’t help the laugh that leaves him, though is quickly quieted down when he feels stirring at his side.

“well i’ll be damned.”

yes, gojo is obsessed with his girlfriend. also 10k words on geto???

#rena☆star.#geto suguru smut #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #geto smut #geto x you #geto suguru x you #jjk smut #jjk oneshot #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto oneshot

2K notes · View notes

slowdivinqs · 3 months ago

Text

Presentiment

Stalker! Joel Miller x f!reader ( 18+ MDNI )

summary : no one is truly alone in the world, especially not you.

w/c : 12K

warnings : no use of y/n, horror themes and elements DDDNE, stalker behavior, feelings of isolation and depression, existential crisis? Kidnapping, cynical thoughts about life described, abuse, violence against the reader by Joel, old!Joel. slowburn-ish. dub-con?. unprotected PinV. Oral f!receiving. Manhandling. Hunter / prey kink. Twisted daddy kink but no use of the word 'daddy'. Joel popping a viagra. VERY Large age gap ( 35+ years ) . Manipulation. Obsession. Reader’s mother is described as a drug addict. Shitty men, harassment and pervertedness from a co-worker. Murder / death of side characters. Stockholm syndrome. Reader is toxic too. Religious imagery. Can be pixel or pedro Joel. The reader is implied as being thinner due to life long poverty, but her body type is not described or stated.

a/n : This was made for @pedgito's writing challenge and kind of ran away from me. It was such a blast, I've never tried horror or a specifically dark fic and it was sm fun! I’m sure the characters I wrote will stick with me forever. I sat with this fic for a long time before posting, and it's the longest thing I've ever written!! Not sure how I feel about it still. Thank you for letting me participate! Happy birthday ♡

if you don’t like dark themes, listen to the warnings and don’t read the fic.

masterlist

—— ☓ ——

Something feels wrong before your eyes have had the chance to open – a kind of warning, an omen, baked into the morning light stabbing your iris through moth-eaten curtains.

It was the way your body ached as you tried to sit up, stomach screaming for food you just don’t have. Your mother hasn’t been home for a week and you know she’s either run off with some incest-bred asshole who’s promised her a beer or she’s passed out in a crack-house miles away.

Your shift at the diner starts in thirty minutes.

The men that pass through this town are all the same.

Truck drivers – men who think all women in the world are there to satisfy their needs. Iagos of the world, the dark underbelly.

The men that stay in this town are not dissimilar, your days a monotonous blur of wondering when something better will drop into your desperate palms.

There is one man who feels like your only friend in the world.

Standing at a whopping five foot seven, and still kicking up the diner’s jukebox at eighty three, he makes sun shine out from your soul. You can confidently say that Jerry is the best.

He usually sits with you the entire day at work, and makes sure to fill your empty time by teaching you to dance to El Toro Rabón, and La Bamba. His rich hands, littered with wrinkles yet full of life, hold yours while he makes you laugh. Clapping as you finish off with an animated twirl and curtsy.

Jason usually eyes you from the kitchen, rolling his sleazy eyes at the sight of you having so much fun with your elderly best friend. Going back to making greasy burgers and puffing on a cigarette that’s gotten him in trouble with the owner before.

You never agreed with the sentiment that old people were cute until you met Jerry and his late wife during your first shift at the diner : fourteen years old and composed of an exhaustion that was ill fitting for someone so young. He’d been your first ever customer, seventy seven and still wearing that cowboy hat of his.

The first thing you noticed about him was his mustache, the way he uses wax to curve up the tight white curls into points, how it covered his top lip when he spoke, making him look like a cartoon character – his oak brown eyes that has gotten increasingly red and yellow around the corners as he’s gotten older. The way his warm skin has developed patches of darkness, yet he still looks the exact same as the photo of him he showed you from thirty years ago : fresh off his racing horse in Mexico, holding the same cowboy hat over his chest that he adorns now, smiling brightly. He kept his hair looser back then, his ringlets looked shiny even in those black and white photographs.

He calls you bumblebee, and you think he’s the first person that’s ever loved you – and he’s the first person you’ve ever loved. He’s your sunshine, a tether to the world past your 18 hour work day.

Every morning he’s seated in the diner at 8:30 AM with a joke to tell you, stories of his racing days, growing up in Cuajinicuilapa, his time travelling around South America before settling down in this small town near Wyoming. He tells you of his late brother, his views of the world and the people he’s met. He talks of humanity and how love is what is most important in life.

You feed off of the stories he tells you : meeting people from all walks of life under the pretense of coffee, sitting around the same food stand, chatting to strangers who would play guitar on the side of the street for no other purpose than passion.

You feel the desire for this ideal world thrum in your veins vicariously.

He used to come in with his wife Dolores until she passed two springs ago – he talks of her jewelry often, thinks that you should inherit it : they were never able to have children. You serve his coffee fresh and hot – asking Jason in the back to make his eggs perfect and his toast golden brown. You sit across from him at the counter to play bullshit with him while he eats – he always knows when you’re lying, his cheeky smiles catching you out, and his joy wraps it’s warm arms around you.

Your days are filled with giggles and smiles whenever he comes to see you, and he never leaves without a hug.

Jerry does not like Jason one bit – eyeing the skinny, pale cook through the serving counter, telling you that a man like that is ‘no good, honey’. You don’t blame him – Jason had tried to coerce you into giving him a blowjob a few weeks before your 18th birthday – but never forced you when you had threatened to go to the sheriff and have them run a much needed background check. Jason has steered clear of you since then, knowing you weren’t shooting empty threats. You never told Jerry about that, but you think he knows regardless.

He jokes that the forest behind your house has eyes – the kind only the old and the dying could feel. You never found it funny.

Your clothes were not too crinkled this morning when you pulled them on : giving you a small mercy as did your almost-dry mascara surviving one more day. That hadn’t quelled the uneasiness you’d felt all morning, the whole drive to the diner. All you could think about was seeing your friend, and hoping that he would give you a hug and tell you all those happy stories again.

The second you clock in, and Jason comes back in from his third smoke of the hour, Jerry opens the door to the diner.

You float over to the counter with a genuine smile, but it flickers when you see the look on his face.

He talks a lot that day – about his wife, about his old job, even the time a fight broke out in his hometown and his father died, how the horses he looked after got caught in the crossfire : admitting he had hurt the perpetrator afterwards and it haunts him. He tells you everything, even the things he’s told you time and time before – forgetting he ever mentioned it. He’s never forgotten a thing about you, but he talks as though he’s in a hurry, as though he needs to get everything out.

He does not come in the next day or the day after that, and when he doesn’t arrive on the third day you take time off to confirm your fears at the hospital. You do not hear it from a nurse, or a doctor, but from the silence you are met with when you ask for him. That silence, the loneliness that instantly sunk into your bones, shattered your heart into millions of pieces. It is destroying.

You did not come to see him when you could, there was still time to be had, stories to be told. He never saw you make something of yourself, he will never walk you down the aisle like you dreamt he would one day.

You are all alone in the world. No one to speak to, no one to comfort you. No one to make you think life might not be as meaningless as the whispers of your mind seem to believe. The warmth of him is gone, and you feel as cold and grey as the forest that surrounds this town, as if the sun has gone into eternal hibernation.

You want to bury yourself in your room for hours, to not surface for months and months until your body reflects the rot you feel on the inside. Hollow. Your sunshine is gone.

You tell yourself Jerry is now with Dolores, and laugh at the fact that your mind even supplied such a deluded thought. You never believed there was something better up there, not for long anyway.

You still go to his new tombstone, next to his wife’s, and speak to them. They were both religious, crosses carved into the place their names will stay forever, and so you ask any god out there to let them rest peacefully as though they are back in their hometown with their horses and not worry about you.

That evening you sit on your porch, chain-smoking the packs of cigarettes you had been saving, staring at the stars caged by thick trees. You realize you do not have a purpose. You don’t have a want – can’t have one, there’s not enough money for the luxury of wanting something. You’ll live and die in an 18 hour work day.

Your thoughts are scary and boring at the same time, so you begin to look out at the illuminated forest. The sounds of the night – it scares you as well sometimes, an entire empty forest just outside your door, nothing but rotten wood and locks keeping you safe.

Today you found out you will be alone for the rest of your life, but when you sit out on the porch, flicking your third cigarette – you don’t feel entirely alone at all. You feel as though there is something out here with you, your skin rippling with bumps.

You blame it on the Grim Reaper licking at your heart today.

The cabin on the other side of the forest you’re staring at now has been vacant since you were born. Never a light, a sound – it haunts you.

The closest you’ve gotten to it was at the ripe age of 8, venturing through the forest to explore. You had come to the front door until the house moaned at you, and the forest went quiet. You can still vividly picture the glance you got of the cabin while you ran all the way home.

You leave the shadow of the cabin in the dark forest behind, you need to get dressed for your shift. Money waits for no one, not even for the death of your best friend.

Down the empty highway, not a car in sight – the image of your headlines whirring past the thousands of trees burnt into your retinas from seeing it every single night. Your eyes are puffy and raw from crying, a headache pounding behind them.You pass the single off–ramp road you’ve never been stupid enough to take, the one that winds through the forest, all the way to an open clearing, a small path that can barely fit your sputtering car – leading all the way to the back of your rotting house. You used to play in that clearing as a child, pulling out grass and flowers and making huts out of branches until the day the forest went quiet for a second time – and you knew something was out there with you.

You had told your mother after running inside, but she pushed you away from the comfort of her arms and told you it was just jackals – you knew it wasn’t, even then.

It had seemed you knew something was coming your whole life, constantly looking over your shoulder – watching, listening. Sensing all and any kind of movement anytime, wary. You didn’t like the silence, you didn’t like being alone – yet you were singled out, not a soul or sound to comfort you through your isolated existence.

The gas station is empty as it is every night, you use the time to read. To think, to wonder what it’s all for in the end. If you should run away, leave and never come back. Go and find the ocean, let it swallow you whole.

The sliding doors of the entrance ding as they open. Your eyes flick up so quickly it hurts. A man walks in, and your stomach swoops. Everything falls quiet, and you think of the thing that your mother called the jackals, you think of the forest falling silent : baby birds quieting in the face of danger. He disappears behind a shelf, a glimpse of a Carhartt jacket that sparks a warmth : a remembrance of your dear friend who is now gone, the once comforting material on someone foreign, scary.

Your breath shallows. You don’t know why. It’s not just the quiet – it’s the kind of quiet that makes your blood congeal. Like the silence before a scream.

You glance to your side, below the counter, a bat sits for emergencies. You’re not sure why you are panicking the way you are, if it’s the hour, Jerry’s passing, the presentiment you’ve felt all week.

There is something silent, and something wrong.

When you look up, you still don’t see him. The light behind you flickers, and you almost want to cry at the fear that’s bubbling up in your throat, your hair is standing on end. Your ears prick at any sound, a fridge door opening and shutting.

Your body is shutting down on you, your heart crawling up your throat by claws : fighting and fighting for a chance to survive while your body quivers with the force of your instinct to run. Grab the bat, over the counter, out the door to your car.

You blink, realizing you haven’t been seeing a damn thing, and he’s on the other side of the counter. Looking at you with a blank expression.

Your heart fizzles and falls back to its place, your hands are shaking.

“Forgot milk.” His voice is entirely too flat, disarming and discerning.

You glance down at his hands, calloused and holding a single jug of full cream milk. He’s waiting for you to scan it.

“Right, sorry.” You mutter, sliding the milk over the scanner and taking the cash from him before returning the change. He hasn’t looked away from you once, he seems tired and bored : a normal milk run, but you’ve never seen him before. It’s shocking for a town with under five hundred residents.

He nods his thanks and leaves. The sound of his car sputtering away allows you to finally exhale.

You cash out and go home soon after that, shaken, like every ounce of fear you’ve felt in your life crashed through you the second he entered the store. An omen, a warning.

You wake up to a box at your door the next morning. In your sleep-shaken state, you have half the mind to stomp on it, fearful it came from The Man last night. Fortunately, curiosity seemed to be on your side this morning, as upon opening the box you find Denise’s necklaces, bracelets, rings and books. Paintings, antiques, and most importantly - a cowboy hat. Your favorite hat in the entire world. He had left everything of his to you, when he wrote his will you do not know. Maybe Jerry knew what was coming, he always was wise, connected to everything there is in a way you wish you could be.

You cry all morning, through your miserable shift at the diner. You must look like some sort of slug, because Jason asks you if you’re okay, as does the girl from your old english class who came in that morning all the way from New York : in town and visiting her parents. She dyed her hair and found her style. You see the sparkle of the world in her eyes, and your dirty fingers itch to steal it, to run outside with her car keys, assume her role as a real person. You do not feel real at all.

When you return to your rotting home you watch an old western - Jerry’s favorite - while you wear his cowboy hat, toying with the new jewelry that was sent to you when the police must’ve got around to acting out Jerry’s will. You feel loved and, oh, so lonely at the same time. You are a ghost in your own home, and the appearance reflects it. No real girl would live in a house of mold and quiet, where it is abandoned despite having a resident.

—-

The Man returns this evening as well, in the moment you were humming the iconic tune from your new favorite movie. Jerry had good taste. The world goes silent, and he grabs a pack of beers before heading to the till. “Marlboro Reds, please.” He has a Texan accent, and you stare at your hands as you give him what he wants. He leaves after that again, your only customer of the night.

The next night, he takes his time browsing the store. You watch him, watch how he languidly moves, scanning the items like his eyes would not eventually land on you. Approaching the counter with his chosen trifle.

“You don’t get scared workin’ nights?” He asks, and now you know your concerns were not unfounded.

“No.” you lie, meeting his eye for the second time since the first night. He does not have facial expressions, you realize. Blank, revealing nothing. He is a handsome man. An eerie man. He nods, holding eye contact as he grabs the useless item and goes back to his sputtering truck outside. He looked like he wanted to call you a liar.

You do not show up for your shift the night after that. Your gut tells you to stay home, to lock your doors and keep your father’s old pistol near you. To close the blinds – sit and listen to every sound of the night. Check under your bed just in case.

You’re late to the diner the next morning, greeted by Jason’s complaining that he had to serve the first customer’s coffee, asking for you to make it up to him. When you peep through the corridor, your heart drops at the only customer in the restaurant.

The Man has come to the diner. He knows you, he knows where you work – probably where you live.

Maybe he lives here, maybe it’s all some coincidence. Maybe it’s not what you think.

You bring him his eggs and bacon, and when you look up to his face he’s already looking at you. He does not move, does not touch his knife or fork. He’s staring at you.

“Leave me alone.” You say, quiet yet firm, standing over him as he blinks and looks down at his food. Your fear is making you angry, fire spitting in your eyes. He doesn’t answer you, and after two moments of being unable to bear the energy that exudes from him – you walk away, into the back of the kitchen to watch Jason work, peeping through the slits of the serving station to watch The Man eat his food. Your body hair prickles into points.

Jason eyes you, glances at The Man, and raises a faint eyebrow at you.

“That your daddy?” he asks, staring at the popping bacon. You watch the grease heat and solidify, the sweat sticking on Jason’s skinny yet defined triceps, coated with wiry hair that’s never been tended to.

“No.” you whisper, tucking your hands under your legs : they are cold, and your skin is overridden with goosebumps, hair standing. You feel as though you’re about to be swallowed, like large claws will pick you up and drop you into a maw of sharp, hungry teeth.

“Why’s he givin’ me the stink eye, then?” Jason grunts, picking at his gold tooth with a grimy finger as he lazily looks over to your thighs, then your face. Raising an eyebrow at how fearful you look, he glances back at The Man. Something like concern flashes across his face, and he lifts his cap to rub over his short, receding hair. It’s the first time his eyes have ever looked soft.

“Dunno.” is all you manage to mutter as you brace a peek to find The Man has looked away.

He’s slow, takes time to eat every piece of food while staring blankly out the window, like he’s watching the world as though he’s never seen it before, unnatural. You want to tell Jason about your all consuming fear that this man is going to hurt you, but his eyes have changed and he makes another comment about how good you look in the plaid dress that happens to be your uniform. You choose to wait outside of the building instead of enduring the male specimen of your species. It feels like you are alone in a world of monsters.

When you return inside, there’s a fifty dollar tip next to the spotless plate, everything stacked for you to carry.

You don’t return home that night : you ditch your job at the gas station for a second time, leaving your car at the diner to book a room at the shitty motel. It feels as though you died the same day Jerry did, maybe you are dreaming : alone in an empty world, your only companion being the monster. Nothing feels real.

You fall asleep to the sound of ugly moans, watching the handle of your door : your heart beating faster than your body can manage. Rocking yourself back and forth, humming a soft tune your father used to play on the guitar when he was sober enough to think.

You feel as though you are living on borrowed time, as though this opportunity to wait is a mercy.

He is not at the diner the next morning. Neither is Jason, it’s closed up and the lights are shut off – it is Jason’s job to open up and get the stoves burning. You try to call the owner with the small amount of change you have on the payphone, but no one answers. The sound of the dead line ringing in your ears as you look around in a panic.

You suddenly feel as though you’re back in that patch of forest, surrounded by tall trees and a monster waiting to swallow you whole. Watching. A fear so curdling you fear you’ll throw up over the plastic phone.

You’re wide awake standing behind the counter of the gas station. Watching the fluorescent lights flicker. You parked your car out back. You’re holding the bat in your right hand under the counter. You are waiting for him to come in. You should have driven far far away, but you have a sinking feeling he would have followed.

The night is completely quiet. No people, no sounds except for the humming of the fridges.

You glance at the back door, and the moment your eyes turn away from the sliding doors they ding. Your hair rises and stands violently. Skin alight and blazing as the first footstep echos in the store.

You don’t think about it, your body tells you to run and you do.

Out the back, to the edge of the concrete until your feet are pounding along the road, bat gripped tightly in your fist. The sound of your own feet are drowned out by the ones behind you, big and stomping. The trees framing your attempt at an escape as they yawn and stretch above - caging you in, suffocating. They grow tall as you sprint, closing like they will eagerly crash down and trap you like a wave from the ocean you’ve never seen.

You push with all your might, and you thank the lord you took track during school, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you run so fast the sound of feet behind you fade. It feels like victory, like being free – your chest blooms from the burn and the success. You think of the gun in your bedside drawer, and turn down the off-road into the woods you’ve never been brave enough to take before. The only sound is the one of your own feet : you’re not stupid enough to look behind you.

The moon lights up the forest floor, you don’t trip over a single root or branch. You’re moving faster than you ever have in your life : your lungs screaming, fear rising in your lungs like bile. You break into the clearing, the one that has always been haunted by Jackals.

You’re almost home.

A force heavier than you think you’ve ever felt crashes into you from the side, you’re slammed down into the one patch of grass you often picked, the bat flying out of your hands and rolling to the dirt in front of you.

“Knew you’d run here.” A deep, breathless voice says right into your ear, your hair is pulled as a hand clamps down on your struggling wrists, excited. “Always liked playin’ here, didn’t ya?” he grunts, pulling something out of his pocket. You swing your elbow up, knocking him straight in the jaw. He sways for only a moment, but it’s all you need. You dash forward, crawling away from him before you find your feet, grabbing the bat and smashing it down over The Man’s skull. He groans and stumbles, gripping the back of his head as you trip over your own feet to stumble away. You run towards your rotting home, you can’t think about the fact he knew where you played as a child, all you are thinking about is the gun.

You don’t even get to the steps of your back porch before he’s tackling you to the ground again and hitting the side of your face hard enough to make you cry, your head fuzzing. Your face stings and your eye throbs. You want to bring your hands to cup over the hurt, hold yourself in an attempt to make it better, but he is holding your hands. He curses at you, spitting vile words for managing to get solid blows at him.

“Come on, darlin’. You think that little gun ‘s gon’ do anythin’? It don’t even got any bullets.” He grunts, you feel zip ties around your wrists, your mind racing as you continue to struggle and kick until his hand is around your throat faster than you can think. “Don’t make me hit that pretty face again, bitch.”

You go still, and slumped. Trapped in a wolf’s jaws.

His hand squeezes tighter and tighter as you squeak a protest, until you can’t think anymore and the last of your squirming falls away.

The first thing you smell when you wake up is smoke, the kind that comes from a fireplace. The first thing you see is rich, dark wood. You’re on a bed and you glance up to see you’re handcuffed there. Your skin isn’t just throbbing – it's raw, the skin bitten where the metal has scraped against you. Your head pounds like it’s been split open, the ache thick and blinding.

You can feel he is somewhere within the room, the twist of your stomach and the lingering presence on the back of your head tells you he is there. A creak of a chair behind you finalizes his presence but you can’t be bothered to do anything besides slump back against the mattress, curling up into a tiny ball.

He says your name to get your attention, and you don’t attempt to look at him, your skin is already crawling with what you think he wants to do to you. Future years of using and hitting flash through your mind, wishing for the mercy of death.

He walked next to the bed too fast, too silent. A wall of muscle and heat as large as him should not be so quiet. He is touching your hair, stroking down your cheek. His hand is rough and warm, he smells like a cologne that reminds you of your father. You think you might be sick.

“I was bein’ nice. I waited.” he says softly, pressing down with his pointer finger on the bruise that has molted under your skin, making you wince and shuffle away from him, glancing up at him to find his striking, dark eyes on you. His jaw is bruised where you hit him with your aching elbow, a trickle of dry blood still stuck on a piece of his salt-and-pepper hair. You made a crack in his head – a small trickle of pride filling your veins at the fight.

It is small lived, and dies out at the next throb of your wrists.

He sighs at this reaction, before walking out of this bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

You lie there for what feels like hours, only moving when you notice the water and ibuprofen on the bedside table : still in its packaging. Your whole body aches, the last throttles of your adrenaline were beaten out of you with his hands.

It’s only when you sit up that you notice where you are. The view outside the window is the forest behind the cabin that groaned at you, that haunted you as a child.

He’s lived here the whole time : he’s been here the whole time. The feeling of impending doom that curdles your skin when he’s been near. The jackals you felt as a child, the forest going quiet.

It’s been him. It’s always been him.

Your skin feels as though it will turn inside out, every hair on your body standing to a rigid point. The fear feels as though you’re dying.

You don’t have to look to know he’s silently opened the room again, and you speak.

“You some kind of pedo?” You spit as your head throbs, sitting up on the bed, tugging on the cuffs, rage curdling and bubbling up on your skin – you think of your mother.

He stops moving at your words, “what?”

“You’ve been watching me since I was a child.”

“It wasn’t like that, Jesus.” He grunts, sounding uncomfortable at the idea. You almost want to laugh. In your periphery you see he’s ditched his canvas jacket, wearing a navy flannel that shows you just how large he is - as if you didn’t feel it the night before when he tackled into you so violently, stealing every inch of breath in your lungs.

“Oh, well sorry for assuming some old, sick pig stalking a young girl since she was a child isn’t a fucking pedophile.”

He smacks you over the throbbing patch of your skin, and you finally glare up at him with every bit of ire in your body. It was not any kind of hit, it was the kind that made you feel like dead weight, that knocks all the air out of your body as if you are a puppet with it’s strings cut.

He’s staring down at you.

“I’m not – christ, it ain’t like that.”

“So you’re just going to kidnap and keep me? You’re not going to – to do anything, is that right?” You scoff the words out, holding your hand to your cheek. The ache under your skin feels like it could stay there forever.

“I don’t want to do anything to you.” He seems to notice the irony of his words when you let your palm drop, face swollen. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you.”

You look out the window and go silent.

“You didn’t have to hurt me, this was your choice.” You spit, and he looks almost surprised by your words. There’s goosebumps that break out over his skin, and the energy in the room constricts as he backs away from you.

He glances out the same window before handing you a warm bowl of stew, pieces of meat and potato bobbing up from the thick, stock smelling liquid. You stare down at it, and then glare back up at him.

“Is it poisoned?” You’re not serious, you’re angry.

“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it earlier.” He says it as though it’s as casual as the weather, as though killing something – a person – is as boring as can be. Idle reassurance.

“You seem to like the waiting game.” You huff, staring at his large, twitching hands. His watch is broken.

He looks like he wants to smile at your quip, eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Eat.” He tells you, closing the bedroom door softly as he leaves you be.

—

You have been here for two weeks, only knowing this due to the little alarm clock next to the bed that he brought you from your house.

True to his word, he hasn’t touched you – in fact, he’s been taking care of you in ways you have never been before. It’s intimate, and a sick hunger has begun to heat low in your belly alongside the fear.

You feel as though you’ve been living in a small bubble where time never passes. He watches you at all hours of the day, asking you questions about the men you’ve worked with, if there’s anything from your house you want him to fetch. He tries not to hit you when his anger bubbles up at your persistent silence. He asks you questions about yourself, not ones like favorite colors, but if you think all people in the world are unsavable.

He looks like he’s hoping you will tell him he can be saved. You do not.

He makes you eat dinner with him every night, bathes you as well. The first time he tried it, after letting you rot in bed for three days, he had to wrestle you into the bathtub after trying to be nice, held you down while you kicked and splashed and scratched at him until he pressed his fingers over your injured face in an unforgiving manner until your cries went quiet, and you almost fainted from the pain. He made you apologize for making him have to hurt you.

You swallowed the clawing, raging voice at the back of your throat and did it. When he kissed your forehead and told you it’s okay, a warm sickness swirled in your stomach, nauseating and tentatively delicious all at once.

You have not tried to fight him after that night, scared of what would happen if he were to comfort you.

He tucks you into bed most evenings, pressing the blanket to cushion you and arranges the pillows. In the first nights, it had scared you : you hadn’t slept a wink, terrified he would slip into bed and his patience would wear thin. Now, it feels like something nice. He tries to tell you happy stories, he usually fails – but it makes you think of Jerry and you feel better regardless, it makes The Man seem more real, like a human rather than a monster.

He asks you to curl up next to him on the couch so he can read aloud to you, books you’ve heard about in passing but never read : he has a liking for Cormac McCarthy and the Wild West. He bakes cookies for you when you ask him your first question, letting you sit at the table with a glass of milk to enjoy them. You feel warmth radiating from inside of you, spiked with fear – no one has baked cookies for you before. You finish them, and he says he’s proud.

—-

The sinking feeling comes slowly. Seeping into your bones whenever he holds you. It gets worse when you begin to dream of him, a possible reality, one of him holding you and kissing you – telling you you’re lovable, perfect, worthy. Six months have warped your brain, slipping out of your grasp like sand. You wake up to slickness between your legs, a desire to go find him in the kitchen making breakfast and nuzzle under his broad arms, let him squeeze you tight and surround you with his scent. You don’t have to beg him to make you feel loved, he’s always loved you : he’s made that clear.

You had realized long ago that he is too big for you to fight, he is all consuming and overpowering. The sinking feels like acceptance, and you think it’s close to dying.

It’s a sunny day when it all hits you. He’s been out for half an hour – at the grocery store a few towns over – the moment he said goodbye you had felt a twist in your stomach. You didn’t want him to go. He hugged you and told you he would be back soon, kissing your cheek when you got teary, his whiskery beard tickling your soft skin.

You don’t know when the terror began to feel like safety. You only know that when he’s gone, it feels like you’re alone with the jackals instead of how it was when he found you. When he was the monster.

The worst part was you knew why you reacted that way. Sitting in the sunny room, you forced your mind to constantly think of escape routes, of the disgusting actions he had committed, the way he has trapped you in this little house. Your mind adamantly hates The Man, but that large pit, the self that was unloved and uncared for – alone, has already started to need him, to ignore the stupidity in believing he loves you. To latch on like a leech and suck up all of the love and care he has, not caring if it’s real or pure, to see if it’ll make you round and fat with it – satisfied.

The hunger for what he has to offer you makes you feel like you might be the true monster in the house : your desperation for what you have never tasted knows no bounds. You think you’d kill for it. You might have been the jackal the whole time, the hole that lived inside you might have turned you ugly from a young age.

You are scared of your own desperation.

He bathes you every night – ritualistic and precise. Guides you under the water until you reappear, clean and new to a kiss on your cheek, hands scrubbing you clean. Every time the surface breaks and you come back to him, the forest grows denser : tighter and vast while the home, your home, becomes all the more simple and clear, exactly how it is supposed to be.

You need him, and you think you love him. What that makes you, you’re not sure and you no longer care.

He goes out months later, telling you he needs to get food and soap, baby - he leaves the window open and the door unlocked : he knows you will not leave. He says he’s going to grab soap, but he is carrying a prescription slip with a little baggie, what he’s actually going to get remains a mystery to you.

The nightmare you had in the middle of winter had shifted something deep in your foundations – the fear that licked up your spine at the thought of being alone – the much lesser, flickering fear that your body had instinctually looked for him in his room, the dull scream your mind let out at the way you climbed into his bed, burrowing under his large, comforting arms until your brain went quiet and he pulled you closer. Those dull screams of fear and resistance from a lifetime ago have been washed away from his hands, and now a need so gravitational has birthed in its place. You want him.

Dusk comes softly in the weeks after taking residence in his bed. He still has not touched you, and you are beginning to feel ire towards his morality. A wrongness in the way he tries to be right. The cabin is warm with firelight, the smell of smoke wrapping around you like a blanket, similarly to his flannel that stretches over your skin. He jostles open the door slowly, grocery bags lining his fingers in a way that is dangerously domestic – his hair is tousled. His eyes catch onto the fabric, and he pauses.

“You’re in my shirt.” He states, but you know it’s a question. Your eyes search for the little baggie he had, wondering what he put in there.

You close the book he gave you to read, the cover sliding across your fingertips, “It smells like you.”

Something in his expression shifts. You think it might be guilt. Or pride. Or both, layered on top of each other until they’re indecipherable. He sets the bags down and moves to you, slow and steady – crouching to your level in front of the couch.

“You missed me?” He asked, eyes wild and dilated, hands skirting over your exposed thighs. Up and down.

You look away, unable to meet the gaze that is burning into you, to admit how far you’ve gone to his face. Yet your head nods, eyes flicking to his as your chin wobbles, bottom lip jutting out before tightening in a grimace. He wipes a tear from your eye.

“’s okay to miss me, I’m the only one who’s here f’you, darlin’.” He cups your cheek, rubbing the skin there. You meet his eyes this time, close them before you’re leaning in, resting your head on his shoulder as he sits next to you, guiding you onto his lap and telling you it's okay, and it’s natural, baby and finally I love you, don’t cry sweet girl.

You’re tired of the tears, of the fight. Tired of the empty woods and the silence – the loneliness that lives in your bones. You’re tired of running from the thing that makes you feel whole and real.

You wonder if Jerry ever saw this coming, and if he did – why didn’t he ever warn you something so soul destroying would be waiting to swallow you? Why didn’t he tell you the most human monster in the world would be the only one to see you without the shiny idealism behind cataracts? You feel guilty for admitting that The Man knows you better than Jerry ever did. The Man knows you are not made of sunshine and flowers, he sees the hole carved in your stomach that makes you so achingly hungry, and shows his own back.

—

You noticed the loose floorboard on the second day, and now you pry it open. While you care for The Man, you are acting on instinct.

He had shouted at you this morning while you were still curled in his arms, gotten rotten and angry, called you a stupid bitch when you had asked him to come with him to the store, wanting to see the world again.

You were hopeful he would trust you, that he would prove you are, in fact, not living in a cage.

He had stormed off, and for the first time in eight months he had locked the door on his way out, shoving a small plastic bag in his pocket.

Spiders crawl out from the floorboard, and you jump back, standing on the couch while you throw The Man’s shoes at them, you wish he was here so he could take care of it, could laugh softly at your fear and hold you in his arms – away from the floor – to protect you.

You remind yourself you do not know his name and that you’re trapped here, a jarring reminder of the way you have settled.

You need something to prove he was a real, living man before his life revolved around you. You need to rebel against him, like a petulant, scared child because of his rudeness this morning.

Once you feel safe enough, you roll up the sleeve of the lacy undershirt he gave you and stick your hand inside. Searching for some sort of ocular truth amongst the bones of his own rotted cabin.

A pair of old boots with a ‘J’ engraved in the sole is the first thing you pull out. An army knife next, then a bunch of guns and weapons.

No matter how strange it is to find guns and knives buried in someone’s house, for The Man it’s quite boring.

You pull out a shoe box next, placing it next to you on the floor before blowing the dust off of the top. It doesn’t help much. From the amount of grime, it looks as though you are the first person to touch this box in years.

The lid sticks to the rest of the compartment from cobwebs, but you discard the thing anyway, desperate and careless.

A photo is the first thing you find, old and yellowed.

A little girl.

At first you are fearful she is a victim, until you see the photo of The Man - much younger - holding her in the hospital. Your stomach curdles, and it feels like rotting, eating itself from the inside.

A daughter.

Your heart swoops low, pensive. You think of the room he keeps locked, the warm light that streams under the gap of the door - reflecting something pink inside. The way you would watch the beams dance on the floor like a whole soul was trapped inside there, wilting as the sun set.

Her birth certificate is the second thing you find.

Sarah Miller : 1983 / 03 / 18

City of origin : Arlington, Texas.

Father : Joel Miller

A name, a life, a whole world buried in the foundations.

You gawk at the fact that The Man – Joel – is 60 years old.

Her missing poster is what you find next. Bile rises like acid on your tongue, a smiling, happy girl plastered with information about her last whereabouts, the pink shirt she was wearing and how tall she had gotten. She went missing on your third birthday. Your head swims. You drop the documents back into their casket with trembling hands and weak knees.

Stupid, stupid girl – why did you have to look?

The last thing you find is a golden tooth, familiar in its grime and dullness. You can imagine a sleazy tongue gliding over it in irritation. Jason’s golden tooth. You drop it immediately and slam the loose floorboard shut, burying what was meant to stay that way once more.

The room looks as though nothing has changed, yet everything inside of yourself is different. A storm of fog and clarity, adrenaline pumping for running and the desire to stay still.

You throw up outside the living room window.

Everything feels like a blur after that, grabbing your boots he stuffed away - a coat and a knife from his kitchen.

Run, just run. Don’t look back. Get away, fast fast fast.

You climb out of the bedroom window and run all the way to where you left your car the night he caught you, cold wind whipping past your face and sending a burn through your nose. Your feet pound along the ground like the whole world is weighing you down, like every stone is hoping to trip you and let you fall, to cut your knees open and stop you.

You eventually arrive at the gas station.

You're stunned that the place is closed and rotted, not a single soul in sight.

Your lungs are burning, you feel woozy, and you let out a pathetic cry when you see he has slashed your tires.

Stopping at the rough concrete of the shop, you attempt to open the back door, only to spot a poster plastered on the side of the wall.

A missing poster. Your missing poster, with not a single person in the world to care for its presence besides a man who you ran away from, who would tear it down and remove you from an existence that is not with him, that would try to come find you to bring you back.

You decide to keep running in the opposite direction of his home. A large part of you is screaming at you to run to the Sheriff’s office and tell them what happened, that Joel will find you if you try anything else, but a shamefully large part - a sick part of you does not want to run away from him. He has cared for you - he has watched you all your life, and you know – regardless of purity or morality – he loves you. All that is left for you without him is a town that would freeze in time if you were to vanish, fake in its existence, a facade for the life you were always meant to live.

To your horror, the twist in your chest tells you that you love him too, it’s a surety now.

You think of the soft kisses he pressed to your hair, the way you got used to him telling you of things he liked about you, that he only would have known from watching. The way he told you he too liked Jerry, and liked the movie you watched after his passing. He let you watch it every night for a month, and began to quote the lines with you in an exaggerated version of his accent to make you giggle.

He saw you, he has always seen you. He loves you and wants you and needs you enough to take you for himself.

You have stopped running, standing still for a moment before slowly turning around, feet shaking in your soul’s indecision. Torn and trembling. The forest is completely silent, yet this time you feel all too real – too alive.

Your mind is not what it used to be. The shake of your hands comes from the part of you that is pleading for you to run, to see the clear manipulation : the rose coloured glasses that have been forced over your eyes. The other part – the part that you are starting to believe is the truth of who you are – wants to run back to the cabin before he sees you ever left, to cup his devastatingly handsome face and let him take what has always been his, to be made a real person.

It is consuming, this primal want.

A twig snaps.

You don’t need to turn around to know he his standing close behind you.

You clench your fists and turn around, fear curdling and boiling in your belly, making your knees weak and shaky.

The look on his face clears your rational thought once again, and you quickly attempt to scramble away from the monster. He looks absolutely, impossibly, livid.

You do not know why you ever thought you could run, why you thought he would not find you, that he would let you go.

You burst into tears the second he has you against the forest floor once more. The ground ripping the skin from your cheek as you fall, crushed under him once again – worse this time : you knew better.

“Why’d you do it, angel?” He says softly, entirely contrasting from the way his arm is curled around your head, large biceps restricting your breath.

“I-I was scared.” You cry, trying to stop the hiccuping of your lungs to keep the breath you have.

“I know baby, I know.” He soothes, deep voice right next to your ear, his mostly salt and slightly pepper beard tickling the skin. “You made me so scared, sweet girl. Thought you cared ‘bout me.” he whispers. You do not know if the tightening of his arms was intentional, or if he is so upset at the idea you could hate him that he is consumed with it.

“I’m s-sorry,” You gasp, clawing at his arm, “I do care, ‘s why I–”

He raises his hand quickly, yet it hangs in the air for a moment. Hesitation, guilt – trembling like he’s stuck. You see something raw flicker in his eyes before it’s gone and he’s striking the ground next to your face, barely missing you – a last second decision.

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.” Desperate, angry, scared.

You need to placate him before he does something stupid.

“I turned back– I was going to go back home I promise, please.” you cry, looking into his eyes. You loathe the fact that your words aren’t lies, that the care he sees reflected in them is real. You want him, you need him.

He watches you silently, frowning. Waiting to see what you have to say to him.

“I snooped, I’m sorry. I was angry about this morning and I saw– I saw Jason’s tooth and–”

The sound that leaves him is punched from deep within his chest.

He is silent for a long time. Pulling away from you.

You do not breathe, scared – the back of your neck is bared to him. Your life depends on his reaction.

“You saw my girl.”

You tremble in his slackening grasp. He seems to be staggering for a moment, unprepared and assaulted by the memories you have brought back. His hands grip tighter and tighter.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know.” you whisper, tears streaming out of your eyes as you look up at the setting sun, these must be your last moments. Your body trembles and your hiccuping noises are ugly. You wish you could take this all back to before.

“You ain’t supposed t’see what’s down there.” he’s lifting his hands off of you, and you think the scariest thing about this moment is how human he finally seems. Like you are the one seeing him after all this time. You stay down, turning to look into his eyes – all you can see is grief. “You know what it’s like to be lonely, that’s why you were brought to me, baby.” His hands wrap around your neck again, and you shriek a small protest, scrambling. Your nails crack and bleed as they attempt to rip yourself away from him by holding onto the ground and pulling.

You feel drops against the back of your neck, and fear lurches in your stomach at the fact that he’s crying. “She would have hated me, she was so good.” His hands are constricting, crushing. You choke and gasp for breath. “But I ain’t got her anymore. I got you. And God help me, I need you, sweet girl.”

“I’m sorry.” you whisper again, looking into his sad eyes with your teary ones.

“I know.” He says softly, and you whimper as his hand comes to your face. He rubs the skin for a few moments, letting himself breathe and feel you. It feels like an eternity, lying under him, trapped.

“I’m goin’ to give you a choice, sweet girl. I ain’t given you one before.” His voice builds up as he says it, like the memory of his daughter drives him to formulate a plan – a way to somehow fix everything he’d done. Your heart stops as he slides off of you, picking you up with him and holding you, the tips of your boots brushing the ground. He stares at you seriously, and he looks so different from the monster, like he’s trying his best to do the right thing after all this time, pretending it’ll take everything back.

“I’m goin’ to let you run, sweet girl. You can choose to go to the sheriff– or, or steal my truck, do what you want.” He swallows thickly, eyes wild. “I’ll let you go, I should let you go.” He whispers almost to himself. “But if you choose t’go back home…I won’t let you leave me again, baby.” He smooths his hand over your hair after setting you down. “You’ll be mine, honey. And I’ll be yours, we can be fair and make this right. I’ll take you, and I’ll tell you everythin’.”

You thought your heart was going to rip out of your chest. Everything is primal, it’s all desperate and ugly and raw. He lets go of you, taking a few difficult, staggered, paces back. His fists are clenched tightly at his sides.

“Go,” he nods slowly, like he’s trying to assure himself this is the right thing to do. “If you run now, I won’t stop you, I swear.” his voice breaks like he’s not sure of it himself — scared of what he’s capable of yet consumed with need. His eyes are soft and round, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. You are scared, but more importantly you are tired.

For the first time someone has loved every rotten bit of you – so desperately they leave morality behind. How could you run away from this?

You hesitate, stagnant and unsure. Your heart and your brain have gotten so tired from fighting it feels they have turned off all together, what happens now is primal – instinctual, you feel out of your own body, vaguely aware of the blood pulsing through you.

You turn around and run swiftly down the road, scrambling over a few loose stones. You glance back at him once, surrounded by the trees, watching you like a dead man watches water. Your heart lurches. He looks heart broken, shattered and as alone as you’ve always felt, like this is the last time he’ll ever see you.

Silly old man, you think.

You were always going to run back to his cabin.

You’ve got no need to disappear into nothing for the sake of rightness when everything you’ve ever wanted lives in the warm, wooden walls of his — your — home.

He underestimated just how hungry, how broken and corrupt you are.

You know now that you love him, and you know that you have always been just as much of a monster as he is. Rotten and broken and impure, tainted and shattered.

You have always been his match.

Your boots carry you home like you weigh nothing, light as air as ribbons of your past fears and wishes string and rip behind you. A flurry of ideas and thoughts until there is nothing except for yourself standing in that same flowery spot with plucked grass and no-more- monsters.

You bask in the silence of the forest. You have since lost track of the hurt, the burn of fear rising in your throat. You think of gold teeth and little girls and bright, wrinkled eyes surrounded by rich, dark skin – before your thoughts fall silent too.

You are under water. By the time you see his cabin : dim with no lights on as it always was until he found you – your mind is somewhere else, hollow and empty and replaced with something molten in your stomach. An ache, gnawing away at your belly.

You don’t knock, you let the stairs creak as you silently open the door.

He had not followed you, true to his word. The house is just as you’d left it.

You feel settled, clam and composed as you slowly begin to strip. Boots at the door, jacket in the living room. A trail made from your scarf leading to shorts and small socks. At the side of Joel’s bed, a lacy undershirt and bra.

You have already started to drift off by the time the cabin door opens. Two shuffles of feet before they stop short.

He takes time to make a fire, the sound of crackling wood creating a comforting blanket to your sleepy state, in and out of the haze, yet aware.

You are silent and waiting, your breath fanning softly as your eyes struggle to stay open. Somewhere deep, your heart throbs – the last fizzling jump of fear before it dies and fades away for good. You hear the opening of a small, plastic bag somewhere in the kitchen, little taps of what sounds like a pill falling against the counter top– a gulp of water a few seconds later.

The mattress dips as he climbs into bed behind you.

His callouses catch on your skin roughly as he traces the side of your face, bare chest pressing against your lower back while he buries his face between your shoulder blades.

You let your eyes flutter shut as he places open-mouthed kisses up your spine, wet and shaky. His hands grip your hips like you’ll turn to smoke if he doesn’t hold on. His beard tickles your shoulder as he continues, cradling you against him as if he is trying to stitch himself back together again, to become real and whole.

You let him.

He is shaking when you turn to face him. Neither of you speak, words unnecessary in the softness and stillness of the night : no need for words when there are only two people in the world who are so entwined already.

His palm cups your face, turning you to look at him, thumb stroking over the corner of your mouth like a prayer. You whisper his name to him for the first time, a shaky breath escapes him as he whispers yours back. A small ruffle of the familiar duvet as you turn to face him, his warm palm cups over your tit – your pounding heart – as you turn to face him. Eyes shining as they meet yours. He looks so human.

He presses his nose against your own before his chapped lips finally meet yours in hesitation, like he’s trying to confirm that you’re really here next to him, that he hasn’t lost the only thing he has.

It’s soft for only a moment before you both let the hunger take over – hot and wet, lips moving faster and faster as his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. They part without hesitation, taking the warm wetness of it inside your mouth and sucking gently, rolling over the other’s until your tastes are the same.

You gasp as his hands – rough and trembling – slide down your body, tracing every feature he studied from afar that is now finally his to touch. His mouth nudges along your jaw, nipping at the skin before he’s burying his face in your neck and inhaling.

When you whisper his name softly, he shudders like you’re the first person to ever truly call for him.

Your hand glides down to his stomach, running through the silvery hair that coats it desperately, trying to ground yourself to him. To pull him impossibly closer like you want to merge your bodies into one, consuming.

His hands are everywhere as he groans into your mouth, surrounding you completely. One grips your hair, pulling back gently to bare your throat to him as the other runs down your breasts, pulling and squeezing your nipples into tight points, breath panting from the intensity. He paints your neck with bites, blooms where he’s sucked and tugged on your skin until his mark has been made – groaning as he licks over the skin, like he’s trying to infuse you into his bones. Your skin tastes like his surrender, like the salt of his prayers. It’s not forgiveness he asks for – but belonging, trying to carve a place for himself in the crook of your neck.

Your fingers slip under the band of his boxers, searching for that rigid warmth that’ll complete you, retreating slightly on a shaky gasp as his hot, wet mouth envelopes your nipple, pulling and licking.

He’s on top of you within seconds, hands splaying across your shoulder blades as he shows equal treatment to each breast, arching you against him. His heavy sighs travel across your skin as he exhales. Groin slotted against the warmth of yours, he lets your hands tangle in his hair as he moves Southwards, kissing as he goes.

You whine a protest, whimpering for him to join the two of you together, and he answers your previous curiosities in a deep rumble, “Gotta give it time to work, sweet girl. I ain’t young no more.”

You let your head fall back against the pillows, a spark of electricity running through you at the reminder of his age, wetness seeping out into the gusset of your panties as you try to close your legs – an attempt at alleviating some of the heat that’s been building there.

He grunts at this, large hands gripping your soft thighs as he plants them wide and flat against the mattress, “Easy, darlin’ – gon’ take care of you now.” He rumbles against your lower stomach, right over your womb as he reaches up to pinch your tit, prompting you to look down at him between your thighs. Those eyes you once used to fear with such intensity now only make more slickness spill into the cotton that conceals you.

“Want you t’look at me while I taste this pretty little cunt for the first time.” He whispers on a kiss against your mound, dragging your panties down by latching his teeth onto the little bow adorning the front and pulling. You moan softly at the sight, hands fisting the sheets next to your head as his broad, muscular shoulders keep your legs spread wide, baring your warm pussy for his taking.

His eyes meet yours as his breath falters at the first glide of his tongue through your cunt, breaking off into a deep groan as he tastes you. A small cry of his name leaves your lips at the new sensation, hands immediately going to tangle in his soft hair. His tongue is ravenous, licking up every ounce of arousal as his eyes stay on yours, only dropping down when your head falls back once more.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, beard tickling and stimulating you – sending head through your bones. His lips tug on your bundle of nerves, pulling so deliciously your hips cant up onto his face, letting your wetness coat his beard until it’s soaked.

He lets go of your throbbing bud with a pop, licking his lips as he lets his mouth glide lower.

“Taste so fuckin’ perfect, my angel.” He groans as his tongue digs over your hole, an obscene sound of him slurping up all you’ve given him echoes through the humid room, and your moan of approval follows soon after. His nose digs into your clit as he pushes his tongue inside you, letting it glide into your gummy walls as you clench around him. His moans of approval course through you, heat rising blindly through your bones as you cry out for him, hips bucking as he presses against your lower stomach with a large palm. The rough material of his watch-strap scratching your tummy as his brows furrow, focused on eating you alive. The smacking sounds of his lips against your wetness make your eyes roll as he digs his tongue inside. His hand moves lower, skirting against your entrance before he’s pulling his tongue out with a slick pop, replacing it with his fingers as he sucks on your clit once more.

“Joel I-I’m gonna…” You trail off into a high pitched gasp, body trying to twist away from him as his thick fingers curl, pads of them bruising a spot inside of you that makes wetness gush out onto his wrist.

“Cum f’me, sweet girl, look at me.” He grunts, waiting until your eyes meet his to suck on your clit harshly, tongue running against the underside as he spreads and lifts his fingers to press against your gummy walls.

Your first orgasm crashes into you when you realize he’s humping the bed, his hot tongue desperately lapping up the slick that gushes from your spasming hole. He moans at the taste, making sure to drink it all down before he’s pushing up the bed – capturing your mouth in a wanting kiss as his thick hardness leaks against your leg.

His pill must’ve worked.

“Joel.” You whisper against his lips, nails dragging down the muscles in his back as you try to paw his underwear off with your foot, cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to grip and coat his cock in your slickness.

He offers his body to you in a way that feels holy, the glide of him through your messy folds makes a sound so perfect leave his mouth you feel as though you’ve gone to heaven.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers against your lips, the hand that is not cupping your face is notching his fat, drooling tip at your entrance. “I’ve got you, baby.”

The first time he pushes into you, it’s gentle. A broken sound rips from him like he can’t bear it, face strained as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, watching his cock sink into you at a sinfully slow speed. Only when your nails sink into the skin of his back does he look into your eyes, seeing his own want, need, obsession painted in your irises.

He rocks into you like he’s trying to carve a home for himself inside your body, bringing your hand up to cup at his face while you lose yourself to the delicious stretch of him – cunt gripping him so tightly he can barely leave. You were always meant to be wrecked by hand like his – hands that tremble, hands that destroy, hands that worship.

His moans fan across your lips, shaky as they exit. He’s slow, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, as he glides into your soaking cunt. His eyes have rolled, but you lean up to bite your own mark into his neck, pussy clenching as he moans raw and deep at the bright red mark you suck into his skin.

He watches you now, staring into your eyes. You want him to see the hungry, ugly, ruined thing he’s made. You want him to love it.

And when he leans down to kiss you like this night has changed him forever, you know he loves you. He is searching for his salvation in your body.

You anchor yourself to him like the earth is shaking, moaning a soft gasp as his forehead pressed against yours. Reveling in the feeling of his sac slapping against your backside, the sounds of lewd smacks and wetness – his own moans and whispered words of praise floating around you as the sheer size of him swallows you whole. He fucks you like he’s praying at an alter and you devour him whole. In the darkness, there is no difference between love and need, no line between hunger and worship.

Every thrust feels like a prayer, a confession, like he’s spilling the truth of himself into you on every plunge, letting you see every crack of his soul, the ugliness through the pounding of his hips against yours. Rocking together, bound by the loneliness and hunger and something older than love.

You cry under him, silent and open as he digs into you, so big and taking that your body can hardly bear it. He kisses every tear like an apology, licking up the salt as he coos above you, kissing the tip of your nose as he lets the heavy weight of his cock sit and twitch inside you for a moment, pubic hair sticky from your arousal as it grinds against your clit. He buries his face against your neck as he begins thrusting shakily again, and you know he’s crying too.

“I love you.” He whispers against your skin, broken and raw as he shakily moves his hips, eyes flitting to you, hopeful and soul-crushingly vulnerable.

Your breath is shaking, heat coursing through you at the glide of his cock against that place, tailor made for him. Your eyes falter, fluttering as the last of your tears stream down your cheeks, clenching around him so tightly. Every shared breath tastes like forgiveness neither of you have earned.

“I love you too.” You whisper, shattered. Body light as a feather as you let yourself fall.

His breath hitches as he comes inside of you, unprepared for it – hot pulses of his seed spurting quickly, flooding you as he sobs out moans against your skin, gripping your hips so tightly you think you’ll break. You follow immediately, arching into him as his arms wrap around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him as you ride out the waves of your pleasure together, knowing it is so much more than this. You are no longer a scared bunny, alone in the world, and he is no longer a jackal hunting you down — you are only two humans, connected in a way that ascends your lives : cosmic.

It’s not just sex, it’s not just lust – it’s your whole life that has led up to this, to him. Two people who are too broken to live, yet too stubborn to die.

He’s made you his.

You’ve made him yours.

And lying in his arms, letting his hand rub up and down your back, you know neither of you stood a chance.

-------

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed please reblog and comment, it's great encouragement for writers ♡

extra presentiment lore if you’re interested after reading ;)

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wordsofwhimsy · 3 months ago

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𝑺𝒉𝒚 𝑮𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒚 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

Pairing: No Goggles/Lensless!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: SMUTTTTT, so good, so dirty, Mark’s losing his MIND

Tags: Praise kink, dom!reader (kinda, you try, bless your heart), sub!Mark (again, kinda, he’s encouraging tf out of you), Mark is literally the best hype man to ever exist, reader is shy as hell typically so she’s coming WAY out of her shell, porn with no plot (but will one develop? 🧐 we shall see)

Word Count: 1,312

Synopsis: You & Mark have been going steady for awhile. You’re the personal assistant to Cecil – handling all the jobs that are too low for Donald (think coffee runs, taking calls, etc.). You’re shy, reserved, and quiet. So the night you come crawling out of your shell and take the reigns in bed? Mark becomes your biggest fan, your personal hype man, and a man on the edge of religious experience.

a/n: this is so absurdly self-indulgent and i won’t even apologize. i’m not even gonna lie to y’all no goggles/lensless (i like lensless better but seems like the fandom’s collectively sided with no goggles *sigh*) is my new fav. he is just so uugghhhh – like, the perfect balance of psycho with room for being OBSESSED and just, yeah, he’s that man. this was also so cathartic to write after an otherwise traumatic day.

gonna focus on my inbox after this & rebuilding what was lost in the southern belle series 😭

The room was a mess. The bed creaked under the frantic rhythm you were setting, your hips moving with reckless abandon. You’d never felt more alive—this wasn’t like you; not fitting into the quiet, reserved version of yourself he’d come to know. This was something else.

And Mark was eating it up, his eyes burning with dark, primal excitement as he lay back with his hands behind his head, fully relaxed but completely obsessed with the sight of you.

“Yeah, babe, fuck yeah!” he shouted, his voice thick with lust, practically buzzing with excitement. “That’s it! That’s how you do it! You look so fucking good like this. Go harder, don’t hold back, babe, I wanna see you lose it.”

Mark wasn’t just into this. He was thriving, watching you like the goddamn Super Bowl — except the MVP was you, on top, riding him like you owned him.

“OH my god—yes, yes, that’s what I’m TALKING ABOUT!” he yelled, voice echoing off the walls, like you were hitting home runs instead of grinding down on him so hard his abs twitched. “Shy little thing, huh? Where?! I don’t see her anymore—this version? She’s my favorite.”

Your thighs shook, pace relentless even as your breath hitched, lips parted, face glowing with sweat and something far more dangerous — confidence. You didn’t look at him much, still half-embarrassed to meet his eyes even now.

But Mark couldn’t stop staring.

“You feel that?” he groaned, lifting his hips just enough to meet you halfway. “That’s you wrecking me. This is insane. I’m literally being blessed right now.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut, trying to stay focused as your rhythm wavered under the weight of his praise.

“Ohhh, don’t get quiet on me now, baby—nah, nah, nah—talk to me, moan for me, let me hear that pretty mouth, c’mon—GOD, you’re so fucking hot right now, are you kidding me?!”

He was so hyped it was almost absurd — panting, ranting, eyes wide with disbelief like he couldn’t believe this was real. His arms were still behind his head but twitching now, dying to grab you, help you, worship you. But no. He was loving being your seat, your toy, your audience.

“You’re slamming down like you’re mad at me—are you mad at me, babe? ‘Cause you’re gonna make me fucking cry,” he gasped out, then broke into manic laughter. “Shit! Wait—do it again! That grind? That little twist right at the end? HOLY—yes! YESSSS.”

You whimpered, breath catching as your pace faltered again—but he wasn’t about to let you stop.

“Oh no, don’t you dare stop now—look at me, c’mon—ride it out, ride it all the way down, you’ve got this, you’re doing so good, I swear to god I’m gonna blow just watching you.”

You finally looked down at him, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed, and Mark just about lost his damn mind.

“There she is! YESSS, there’s my girl, look at you—on top of the fucking world. Queen shit. Certified. I should be PAYING you right now.”

Your body stuttered—overstimulated, trembling—but you kept going. And he felt it.

His grin snapped into something wicked. His arms finally dropped to grab your hips, not guiding you—just feeling the way you moved, grounding himself while you used him.

“Fuck, fuck, yes, you’re gonna cum, I can feel it—so tight, so wet, baby you are milking me, are you trying to kill me? Is that what this is?” he babbled, delirious now. “Oh my god I love you. Wait—marry me. I’m serious. I’ll give you the moon.”

And when you finally shattered—silently, jaw slack, body stiffening as you came hard around him—Mark practically screamed.

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S MY GIRL! TAKE IT, BABY, FUCKING TAKE IT—”

His hands snapped to your hips, slamming you down as he buried himself deep, coming with a violent groan, his entire body locking under yours. His head fell back, chest rising like he couldn’t breathe, muscles twitching as he emptied into you.

He held you there—still, trembling, connected—until the last pulse faded.

You collapsed against him, shaking and spent, and he caught you immediately, wrapping you up tight, still grinning like a man who just won every lottery ever invented.

“...That was... beyond,” he muttered against your hair, catching his breath. “You just blew my entire fucking mind. I think I blacked out for a second.”

You made a tiny, worn-out noise.

He smiled wider.

—

It was a normal debrief. Supposed to be, anyway.

Cecil was droning on about some black ops mission Mark had technically been assigned to but never showed up for, and a few other heroes were milling around the room. You stayed close to the wall, sipping your coffee quietly, trying very hard to pretend you weren’t being stared at like a snack.

Mark was across the room. Or, more accurately, posing across the room. Back against the wall, arms folded, smirk in full effect, eyes locked on you like you were the only person there.

He hadn't stopped looking at you like that all day.

Your cheeks were already pink, but it got so much worse when he suddenly spoke—loudly.

“You know what’s crazy?”

Everyone turned.

Cecil’s eye twitched. “What now.”

Mark pushed off the wall, casually strolling into the middle of the conversation like he hadn’t just derailed the entire room.

“I just think it’s wild,” he said, grinning, “how someone can be all sweet and quiet in public, but the second they’re on top of you—” You choked on your coffee. Actually, physically choked. “—they go absolutely feral,” Mark finished proudly.

Your soul left your body.

Every head turned to you. Even the intern looked scandalized. Cecil let out the slowest, longest sigh you’d ever heard.

“Oh my god,” you whispered into your hand.

Mark kept going. “Like, I knew she had it in her. I knew. But the dedication? The power? The whole—” he mimed someone slamming down onto a seat, complete with sound effects, “—Boom boom pow, I mean—chef’s kiss. 10/10. Academy Award performance. And the STAMINA? Un-fucking-real. Her thighs were shaking like—”

“MARK!” you hissed, face flaming.

“What?” he said, half-laughing. “I’m complimenting you!”

You were about to melt into the floor.

And that’s when Rexleaned in from two chairs down, elbow propped on the table, face lit up like fireworks.

“Wait, hold up,” he said, pointing at you with his half-eaten protein bar. “You mean quiet girl over here? She was on top?”

Mark beamed. “Oh, on top, in charge, out of body—I was literally just lying there like ‘is this how I die?’ Would’ve been a good way to go out too.”

Rex whistled low. “Shiiiit. Okay. I see you.” He turned to you, eyes dragging way too slow. “Damn, quiet ones really are the freakiest, huh? I knew it.”

You felt your stomach drop. “Rex.”

He didn’t stop. “No no, this is important. For science. So like… did you do the thing where you—”

And then Mark moved.

Slow, calm, still smiling. But the air in the room dropped ten degrees as he crossed the space between them in half a heartbeat and leaned down to Rex’s ear with that same shit-eating grin still plastered on his face.

“If your eyes so much as blink in her direction again, I’ll pop your head like a grape,” he whispered casually.

Rex blinked.

“Like—pshhht. Just… juice,” Mark added with a cheerful hand gesture.

Then he clapped Rex on the shoulder, straightened up, and turned back toward you like nothing happened.

You were bright red, half-horrified and half trying very hard not to laugh. “Mark—”

He winked. “Still thinking about last night, baby.”

“Please stop talking forever.”

#invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson fanfic #variant mark grayson #variant mark x reader #lensless mark x reader #no goggles mark x reader smut #no goggles mark x reader #lensless mark x reader smut #variant mark x reader smut #mark grayson smut #invincible smut #mark grayson x reader smut #invincible x reader smut #i'm obsessed with him

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cressidagrey · 4 months ago

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White Horse - Chapter 6: August 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

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

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1TeaSpiller: Uhhh… when did Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc start following each other on Instagram??

↳@/F1Fanatic44: Wait what??? Since when do they even know each other??

↳@/GridGossip: That’s actually wild because I don’t remember them ever interacting before???

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Victoria always comments on her posts too?? Like hype girl mode. Like full-on “omg stunning!!” type comments.

↳@/PaddockSpy: And Isabelle replies!! She called Victoria’s baby “the cutest little thing.”

↳@/TifosiTears: The Leclerc brothers don’t even do that lmao

↳@/PaddockWhispers: How did we miss this??

@/F1TeaSpiller: No because I went deep and Victoria and Isabelle have been commenting on each other’s posts for MONTHS.

↳@/DR3Simp: So either they’ve been secret besties this whole time… or something else is going on.

↳@/LandoLover4: Define “something else.”

↳@/F1Conspiracies: Y’all. Y’ALL.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: What if she’s dating Max.

↳@/RedFlagF1: BE SERIOUS.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: THINK ABOUT IT.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: 1. Isabelle keeps her private life locked down.2. She suddenly has a very close relationship with Victoria Verstappen. 3. MAX ALSO KEEPS HIS PRIVATE LIFE LOCKED DOWN. 4. HES LEARNING TO RIDE FOR HIS GIRLFRIEND AND THE LECLERC’S SOLD ISABELLE’S CHILDHOOD HORSE TO PAY FOR CHARLES’ KARTING.

↳@/TifosiTears: No. No way.

↳@/GridGossip: … But imagine if it’s true. SHE DESIGNED HIS APARTMENT AFTER ALL.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: How do you get from “Max’s girlfriend likes horses and so does Isabelle Leclerc” and Victoria Verstappen following Isabelle Leclerc on Instagram to: “Max and Isabelle will raise the next racing dynasty?!”

@/PaddockWhispers: When did they even meet?? Isabelle isn’t really in the paddock scene like that.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: SHE DESIGNED HIS SIM ROOM. THEY MUST HAVE MET THROUGH THAT.

↳@/LandoFangirl: Be so serious right now.

@/F1TeaSpiller: Okay, I’m officially obsessed with this mystery. Isabelle and Victoria are way too friendly for two people who have zero public connection. Something is UP.

↳@/TifosiFan44: What if they just vibe?? Not everything has to be a conspiracy.

↳@/F1Detective: Okay, let’s be logical for a second. Isabelle and Victoria both grew up around karting. Their families must’ve crossed paths back in the day. Maybe they’ve always known each other and just reconnected??

↳@/TifosiFan44: Yeah, but why reconnect now? Why not years ago?

↳@/PaddockSpy: Maybe they ran into each other recently? Like, at a race or something?

↳@/GridGossip: Or maybe… through someone else. 👀

↳@/F1Conspiracies: SAY HIS NAME.

↳@/RedBullUpdates: DUH DUH DUH MAX VERSTAPPEN

↳@/PaddockWhispers: This is getting out of hand.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: Is it? OR AM I ONTO SOMETHING???

@/F1Conspiracies: If you’re telling me Isabelle and Victoria were secretly friends this whole time, I’m gonna need proof because this is a new development.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Nah, I just scrolled through their follows. Victoria followed Isabelle first and Isabelle followed back. It happened within the last few months.

↳@/PaddockWhispers: And suddenly, Victoria is in Isabelle’s comments like they’re besties??

@/TifosiFan99: Do you guys think Charles knows his little sister and Victoria are suddenly besties???

↳@/F1Detective: Absolutely not.

↳@/GridGossip: He’s about to find out through Twitter like the rest of us.

↳@/RedBullInsider: Imagine Charles scrolling IG and seeing Victoria hyping up his sister like “That’s my girl! 🥰” and he’s just sitting there like ???

↳@/PaddockSpy: Someone check on Arthur too, because he’s definitely confused.

@/F1Chaos: Isabelle Leclerc and Victoria Verstappen being all over each other’s Instagram is the funniest plot twist of the season. ↳@/PaddockWhispers: If it turns out that Max and Isabelle have been secretly dating and Victoria knew before Charles, I will actually SCREAM.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: Are we going on a family trip this summer?

Charles: Yeah, Maman was saying she wants to go somewhere all together.

Arthur: Cool. Who’s planning it?

Lorenzo: Isabelle?

Isabelle: …Planning what?

Arthur: The holiday. You know, flights, hotels, stuff to do.

Charles: Yeah, you’re good at that.

Lorenzo: You always find the best places.

Isabelle: Where do we even want to go?

Charles: Somewhere sunny.

Arthur: Beach?

Lorenzo: Good food.

Charles: Okay, Isabelle will sort it.

Isabelle: Right. Sure.

***

Max walked into the living room to find Isabelle surrounded.

Not by clutter—because she didn’t do clutter—but by controlled chaos: her iPad, her laptop, a notebook with neat handwriting, three different browser tabs open on the TV via screen mirroring, and a Google Doc titled Leclerc Family Vacation 2023 (Please Read This One, Arthur).

She didn’t even look up when he walked in. Just tapped something into a spreadsheet with the quiet precision of someone five minutes away from snapping.

“Let me guess,” Max said, dropping onto the couch beside her. “Charles still hasn’t confirmed the villa dates?”

“No,” Isabelle said calmly, “but he did text me a TikTok of a guy falling off a paddleboard. So. Priorities.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Arthur?”

“Suggested a campsite,” Isabelle muttered. “In Corsica. In August. With no air conditioning.”

Max winced. “Criminal.”

“Then Maman said she was ‘fine with anything,’ which we all know is a trap. And now someone needs to book rooms, coordinate flights, and arrange for something that resembles a plan so we don’t end up yelling at each other on a dock somewhere again.”

Max blinked. “So you’re doing it.”

“I always do it.”

That last part came out too soft, almost like she didn’t mean to say it.

Max leaned back, watching her. Hair up in a clip, sleeves pushed to her elbows, brow furrowed in concentration. This was her armor. Her autopilot. The invisible job of being the quiet one. The dependable one. The one who held everything together while everyone else lived like the world would bend for them.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So… Leclerc family vacation, next week?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll go a week later.”

She paused mid-keystroke. “What?”

“Your family’s doing their thing the 6th,” Max said, reaching for her notebook and gently closing it. “So we’ll do ours the 13th. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

Her lips parted. “You mean… another trip?”

“Yeah.” He stretched his arm over the back of the couch, brushing his fingers through a loose strand of her hair. “One where no one forgets your suitcase. Or sticks you with the worst room. Or makes you plan dinner for eight.”

A beat passed.

Then she asked, automatically, “Want me to look up flights?”

Max laughed softly, leaning in. “One: I have a private jet.”

Isabelle blushed. “Right. I forget that sometimes.”

“Two,” he said, voice dropping just a little, “I’m going to plan this one. You don’t have to do anything.”

She stared at him like he’d offered her an alien concept.

Max tucked a finger under her chin, smiling gently. “You don’t always have to carry it all, Belle. Not with me.”

Her throat bobbed. “But I’m—”

“Let me take care of you for once,” he said simply.

And it hit her—the realization that he meant it. That he liked doing this. That she didn’t have to earn it, or apologize for it, or trade it for usefulness.

Just be loved.

Just rest.

Isabelle nodded slowly. “Okay.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Alright, what’s the latest Max Verstappen Is a Perfect Boyfriend update?

Isabelle: …I don’t know if it’s a big deal.

Emilie: Isabelle. It is. Just tell me.

Isabelle: He cuddles me after.

Emilie: …After?

Isabelle: Yeah.

Emilie: Like, after after?

Isabelle: Yes, Emilie.

Emilie: ARE YOU TELLING ME NONE OF YOUR EXES EVER CUDDLED YOU AFTER SEX?!

Isabelle: …I thought that wasn’t really a thing?

Emilie: I—WHAT.

Isabelle: I mean, maybe for some people? But I always got the impression guys weren’t really into that.

Emilie: No. No, no, no. They just weren’t into you.

Isabelle: Gee, thanks.

Emilie: NOT WHAT I MEANT. I MEAN THEY DIDN’T CARE ABOUT YOU.

Isabelle: Oh. Yeah. That sounds more accurate.

Emilie: No one ever held you? Like, at all?

Isabelle: Not really. Sometimes they’d roll over and go on their phones. Or just… leave.

Emilie: …And you were okay with that??

Isabelle: No? But I thought that was just how it was.

Emilie: Isabelle. Oh my god.

Isabelle: But Max just stays. Like, without me asking. He pulls me close, kisses my forehead, plays with my hair, runs his hands up and down my back. Even if we don’t say anything, he just stays.

Emilie: Because he cares about you. Because he actually likes you.

Isabelle: I know.

***

The villa was beautiful.

Of course, it was. Isabelle had picked it.

Neutral-toned interiors, quiet luxury, three terraces, private beach access, and just enough separation between the bedrooms to avoid World War III.

She’d arranged the grocery delivery.

The airport transfers.

The private boat rental.

Carefully adjusted seating to avoid drama (Arthur’s girlfriend apparently did not want to sit next to Alexandra ever again)

It was her spreadsheet, her itinerary, her effort.

And yet, as she stood in the kitchen restocking the drinks fridge with sparkling water and wine, she may as well have been part of the cabinetry.

No one noticed.

Or, worse—they noticed and assumed.

Assumed that of course she’d print the vineyard directions, that she’d know which car everyone was in, that she’d restock the sunscreen, make the lunch reservations, mediate the “how many towels is too many towels” fight between Arthur and his girlfriend (spoiler: it was not about the towels).

Her mother hadn’t said thank you. Not once.

No one had.

Not for the itinerary.

Not for the car rentals.

Not for the fact that she’d packed extra chargers and medicine and picked up Pascale’s favorite jam from that little shop in Nice.

“Isabelle,” Pascale called from outside. “Can you bring out the extra glasses?”

Isabelle bit back a sigh, picked up the tray she had already prepared, and stepped outside with a smile.

The group was gathered around the outdoor table, wine in hand, sun-drenched and happy. Lorenzo was holding court about a minor work drama, Charlotte and Alexandra nodding sympathetically, while Arthur’s girlfriend laughed at something Charles said and Arthur scrolled on his phone.

No one looked up.

No one asked how Isabelle was doing.

No one offered to help.

She set the glasses down, smiled politely, and sat at the empty spot at the end of the table.

“I think we should do the coastal hike tomorrow,” Pascale said, sipping her wine. “Before it gets too hot.”

“I thought we were doing the boat day,” Charles said.

“No, that’s Wednesday,” Isabelle said, gently. “The captain wasn’t available tomorrow.”

Pascale frowned. “Didn’t you book it for Tuesday?”

“I did. Then they called to reschedule. I put it in the itinerary I emailed last week.”

No one responded.

Lorenzo changed the subject. “Charlotte, didn’t you want to go to that vineyard?”

“Oh yes!” Charlotte said. “The one with the stone tasting room.”

“I have it bookmarked,” Isabelle said, scrolling on her phone. “We can go Thursday after lunch.”

Again, silence. Then Arthur said, “Did anyone bring cards?”

Isabelle looked down at her glass, playing with the stem.

This was how it always was.

She planned.

She coordinated.

She smoothed everything over.

And they still looked right through her.

No one noticed her skip lunch. Or how she was always the last to sit down. Or how she cleared everyone’s plates without being asked.

When the private chef asked who to talk to about allergies, they directed him to Isabelle. When the AC broke in Charlotte’s and Lorenzo’s room, Isabelle called the concierge. When the car for the beach trip got delayed, Charles tossed her his phone and said, “Can you handle this?”

She did.

She always did.

And yet, when someone poured rosé for the table at dinner that night, no one poured for her.

Not out of malice. Just… absence.

Isabelle sat back, watching her brothers laugh and bicker, their girlfriends leaning into the glow of effortless charm. Her mother, serene and smiling, gently correcting Arthur’s posture and calling Charlotte chérie.

Not once had anyone asked Isabelle how her work was going. How she was doing.

As if she didn’t exist outside the role she played.

The problem was—she was too good at it.

Too good at making things smooth. Too good at stepping out of the way. Too good at fixing things before anyone noticed they were broken.

And now? No one even saw her hands holding the whole thing together.

Not even the people who were supposed to love her most.

She was just so tired.

***

Isabelle had texted him last night.

The usual emojis were missing. Her messages were shorter. And when he’d called her just after dinner, she’d whispered, “I’m fine, it’s just a headache,” in the voice of someone trying not to cry in a bathroom.

Now, standing at the top of the stairs, he watched as a black car rolled to a stop at the edge of the airstrip. The driver stepped out and opened the door—and there she was.

Isabelle.

Shoulders slumped, hair pulled into a hasty bun, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She moved like someone trying not to be perceived. Or maybe like someone who just wanted to stop moving altogether.

She climbed the stairs slowly, and when she reached him, she managed a soft smile.

“Hi.”

Max cupped her face gently. “Hey.”

Her voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry I look like hell.”

He blinked. “You look like my favorite person.”

She laughed, sort of, but it turned into a wince.

Max frowned. “Headache?”

She nodded. “It’s been going since yesterday. Loud house. Strong perfume. Arthur’s playlist.”

Max stepped aside so she could settle into the plush leather seat, already signaling to the crew to dim the lights and lower the cabin temperature. She sank into the chair, curling slightly toward the window.

He knelt beside her, undoing the buckle on her sandals like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, like it was some kind of failing.

Max looked up sharply.

“Stop apologizing.”

She blinked behind her sunglasses. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re in pain,” he said, his voice low, tight with something sharp and protective. “And exhausted. And still trying to be polite about it.”

She didn’t reply.

“You are not a burden,” Max continued, brushing a thumb over her knee. “You’re not too much. And you don’t have to smile through it just to make me comfortable.”

The silence stretched.

Then, quietly: “I am so tired, Max. I planned everything. Every hour, every restaurant, every day. And I don’t think anyone even noticed.”

“I noticed,” he said immediately. “Even from home, I noticed.”

He stood and grabbed a blanket, gently draping it over her before sitting beside her and tugging her legs into his lap.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “We’ll be here a while.”

She blinked quickly, looking down at her hands. “It was just a lot.”

“I know,” he said. “I read your texts. I could read between the lines.”

She gave a soft, tired laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me? Always.” He leaned back.“You shouldn’t have to be the glue for everyone else, Belle. Especially not at the cost of your own peace.”

“I’m trying,” she said, her voice barely there. “It’s just hard to stop when no one else steps up.”

“Then let me step up.”

She closed her eyes again. Finally relaxed.

He tucked her closer.

And whispered, “Rest. I’ve got you now.”

She fell asleep between one breath and the next. And didn’t wake. Not during the flight… not during the landing.

Max moved slowly, careful not to wake her, easing one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders. She let out the faintest breath but didn’t stir, her head tipping lightly against his chest.

She weighed next to nothing like this.

The tarmac was still warm beneath his feet as he descended the steps.

Surprisingly, Lando could be trusted with vacation recommendation. The North Island in the Seychelles greeted them with turquoise, crystalline water and beautiful weather.

The villa Max had rented just for them stood nestled between palm trees and the beach, pale stone glowing in the late afternoon light. Secluded. Safe.

It had taken him exactly twenty minutes to book it after he’d read the description. Just: privacy, space, quiet.

A place she could breathe.

He carried her inside, murmured a quiet thank-you to the staff who had pre-stocked the fridge, and walked straight to the bedroom with the softest sheets.

He laid her down gently, brushed a few strands of hair away from her forehead.

Isabelle frowned in her sleep—like even now, she didn’t know how to fully let go.

Max knelt beside the bed and whispered, “It’s okay. You don’t have to be anything right now.”

Then he pulled the blackout curtains closed, set water out on the nightstand for later, and moved through the house like a man on a mission.

No phones. No noise. No expectations.

Just him. Just her.

Just the silence she had earned.

***

Isabelle woke up to the sound of waves.

That was it.

Not alarms.

Not messages.

Not someone yelling across a hallway or calling her name from the bottom of a staircase.

Just waves. Slow and rhythmic, like a lullaby that had been playing long before she arrived and would keep going long after she left.

The room was warm with sunlight. Pale curtains fluttered lazily in the breeze, and the air smelled like salt and sun-warmed wood. She lay still for a long time, blinking up at the thatched ceiling, half-draped in linen sheets and Max’s hoodie from the night before.

For a few seconds, she didn’t remember where she was.

Then it hit her all at once: the flight, Max, peace.

And the fact that, for the first time in months, there was nothing to do.

No family group chat spiraling into chaos.

Nothing.

Just this.

Isabelle sat up slowly, stretching, and looked out through the open doors to the private beach just steps away. White sand. Blue water. Palm trees swaying like they were dancing to music only they could hear.

And Max.

Already outside, barefoot in board shorts, sunglasses perched on his head, sprawled in a lounge chair like he owned the concept of leisure. He looked up the second she moved, and smiled.

Like she was the only thing worth seeing.

She stepped outside, bare feet hitting sun-warmed wood, and he lifted his arm without a word. She curled into his side, her cheek against his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head.

“Morning,” he murmured.

“It’s late.”

“Who cares?”

She shifted closer.

One hand moved slowly up and down her back. Not to fix her. Just to say I’m here.

She felt him breathe. Felt her own breathing start to match his.

Felt… safe.

Like she could finally put all of it down. The smiling. The pretending. The quiet, invisible labor of being the one who always held it together.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Max murmured, kissing her hair. “Not today.”

She didn’t.

Didn’t need to.

Because this—his arms around her, the hush of the ocean, the stillness he made just for her—this was enough.

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, Isabelle Leclerc let herself fully rest.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Uh oh. What did Max do?

Isabelle: Nothing?? That’s the thing???

Emilie: …I need more context.

Isabelle: We’re on vacation.

Emilie: Yes, I am painfully aware that you’re somewhere warm and beautiful with your perfect boyfriend while I’m stuck here. Continue.

Isabelle: I haven’t had to plan anything. Not a single thing.

Emilie: …And?

Isabelle: No scheduling. No coordinating. No last-minute scrambling.

Isabelle: Do you understand how weird that is for me???

Emilie: Isabelle. That is literally how vacations are supposed to work.

Isabelle: I know??? But I’m just so used to handling everything.

Isabelle: And Max just… took care of it. Flights, hotel, reservations. Everything.

Emilie: And you’re struggling because…?

Isabelle: Because I keep waiting for something to go wrong and for someone to expect me to fix it. But nothing has gone wrong.

Emilie: That’s because Max is a fully functional adult. Unlike, you know. Your brothers.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: What.

Isabelle: Nothing. Just. Huh.

Emilie: That’s the sound of your brain rebooting because someone is actually taking care of you for once.

Isabelle: Maybe.

Emilie: Definitely. Now go enjoy your stress-free vacation. You deserve it.

Isabelle: …This is so weird.

Emilie: You’ll get used to it.

***

The difference was almost laughable.

The second morning, she woke up slowly, stretching under the soft sheets, and realized something was missing. She wasn’t exhausted. She wasn’t checking her phone to make sure everything was running on schedule.

She just was.

Max, lying beside her, traced lazy circles on her arm and murmured, “You okay?”

She turned her head to look at him, her face half-buried in the pillow. “This is weird.”

His lips twitched. “What is?”

“Not having to do anything.”

Max let out a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point, Schatje.”

She didn’t quite know how to put it into words—that she wasn’t used to this, to someone making sure she was taken care of. That she had spent her whole life organizing and managing and making sure everyone else was comfortable, and now, for the first time, she was the one being looked after.

And Max wasn’t making a big deal out of it. He wasn’t acting like it was some grand gesture. He just did it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like she was worth the effort.

By the third day, Isabelle wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or completely unnerved by how easily Max took over.

They had spent the morning by the beach, and when she’d started to gather their towels and check if they needed to book dinner somewhere, Max had just taken the towels from her hands and said, “I already made a reservation.”

At her look of disbelief, he had only smirked. “You think I don’t know how to plan things?”

“It’s not that,” she said, stretching out on the lounge chair. “I just… I’m usually the one who does this kind of thing.”

Max hummed, pushing his sunglasses up. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You always do everything.” His tone was light, but his gaze was sharp behind the tinted lenses. “For your family. For work. You take care of everyone. But who takes care of you?”

The question caught her off guard.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She wanted to say nobody needs to, but the truth was, no one ever really had.

And then Max, like he could hear the wheels turning in her head, just reached over and brushed his fingers against hers.

“You’re allowed to let someone else handle things,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

She swallowed, staring at their hands. His fingers were warm, steady.

“It’s just how it’s always been,” she admitted softly.

“I know,” Max said, lacing their fingers together. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

She didn’t answer, but when they went back to the villa, she didn’t ask where they were having dinner. She didn’t double-check the reservation or worry about what time they needed to leave.

Instead, she let Max take her hand and lead her out the door, into the night, into something she wasn’t quite used to but thought—just maybe—she could get used to.

Dinner was at a small, candlelit restaurant overlooking the ocean. Isabelle didn’t recognize the name, but the staff greeted Max like an old friend when they arrived.

“You’ve been here before?” she asked as they were led to their table.

Max pulled out her chair before sitting down himself. “I got a recommendation from a friend.” He shrugged. “I like places that are quiet.”

She understood what he meant the moment they sat down. The restaurant was intimate, with soft music playing in the background, the ocean breeze drifting through open windows. It was nothing like the places her family always picked—grand, extravagant, and often exhausting.

“You know,” she said after the waiter poured their wine. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a vacation like this before.”

Max raised a brow. “Like what?”

She gestured vaguely. “Where I didn’t have to plan everything. Where I didn’t feel like I had to keep everything together.”

Max studied her for a long moment, then set his glass down. “You shouldn’t have to feel like that at all.”

She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s just how it is.”

“But it shouldn’t be,” he countered. “That’s my point.”

Isabelle exhaled, shaking her head. “Max—”

“No, listen.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You spent weeks making sure your mother’s birthday was perfect. You handle everything for your family, and they don’t even realize it. When was the last time someone did something like that for you?”

She stayed quiet.

“That’s what I mean,” Max said. “You do so much for everyone, but no one ever makes sure you’re okay.”

She wanted to argue, to say that wasn’t true, but the words wouldn’t come. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Max sighed, sitting back. “I just don’t want you to think you always have to be the responsible one. That you always have to be the one making sacrifices.”

“I don’t mind,” she murmured.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said simply.

She twisted her wine glass between her fingers. It was strange, this feeling of being cared for so deliberately. Like Max had been quietly watching, noticing the cracks no one else had.

And then he smiled, easy and warm. “But for now, you don’t have to think about any of that.” He lifted his glass toward her. “This week, I handle everything.”

She hesitated, then clinked her glass against his.

It was just a week.

But for once, maybe that was enough.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: Réponds.

Arthur: Maybe she’s busy?

Charles: Isabelle is never busy.

( One hour later… )

Isabelle: What do you want?

Charles: Wow. No hello? No how are you?

Isabelle: Charles.

Charles: Okay, fine.

Charles: What’s Alexandra’s shoe size?

Isabelle: Why are you asking me?

Charles: You’re a girl. You know these things.

Isabelle: …Charles. You live with Alexandra. Just pick up a pair of shoes from your girlfriend and CHECK FOR YOURSELF.

Charles: …oh.

Charles: That’s actually smart.

Arthur: Wait.

Arthur: Why did it take you so long to answer?

Isabelle: I was busy.

Arthur: With what?

Isabelle: Living my life.

Arthur: That’s vague.

Charles: Yeah, where even are you?

Isabelle: On vacation.

Arthur: ???

Charles: Since when?

Isabelle: A few days ago.

Charles: Where are you?

Isabelle: The Seychelles.

Arthur: THE SEYCHELLES???

Arthur: WITH WHO???

Isabelle: A friend.

Arthur: You have some of those?!

Isabelle: Yes, Arthur, I do have friends.

***

Instagram Post -@/maxverstappen1

Comments:

@/victoriaverstappen: Finally taking a break that doesn't involve a garage 🙌

@/danielricciardo: Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by a lifestyle influencer.

@/landonorris: Are you… relaxed?? Is this what peace looks like on you?

@/gridgirlie: I’m sorry, but this man does NOT look that content alone.

@/charlesleclercsneck: no but WHO took these??? Max didn’t set up a tripod I KNOW THAT FOR A FACT

↳ @/sunsetandsebastian: It’s the secret horse riding girlfriend!

Instagram Post -@/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/f1updates: HOLD ON. WHERE DID YOU GO AND WHO ARE YOU WITH??

@/f1detectives: Wait… these pictures aren’t from the Leclerc family vacation last week, right?!?.

↳@/wagwatch: Omg you’re RIGHT. The Leclercs were in Corsica, and this is… definitely not Corsica.

↳@/f1updates: Wait, was she even on that trip?! (I don’t think I have seen her in any pictures her brothers posted?)

↳@/isabelleleclerc: Yes!! I was on the family trip!! These are just from a different vacation.

@/leclercnation: Isabelle, where are you NOW???

↳@/isabelleleclerc: Just a little trip with a friend for a week 😊

↳@/leclercfanclub: “A little trip with a friend” GIRL THIS IS PARADISE

@/victoriaverstappel: Enjoy the vacation! And take lots of pictures, I want to sigh dreamily when you show them to me!

@/f1sleuths: Sooo, if this isn’t the Leclerc family vacation… where exactly is she?

↳@/paddockwatch: And who is this friend taking her on a luxury getaway? 👀

@/emilie_abadie: jealous 🤩

@/gridgirls: If this is what a “quiet getaway with a friend” looks like, I need to start choosing better friends.

@/paddocktea: What do we think? Single era glow-up? Secret relationship? The people need answers.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. It happened again.

Emilie: What, relaxation? Peace? Being taken care of??

Isabelle: Yes??

Emilie: Isabelle, I swear to God—

Isabelle: We went on a hike today. I just… followed Max. That’s it. No figuring out where to go, no checking maps, no making sure there was water or sunscreen or food.

Emilie: And??

Isabelle: It felt wrong. Like I should be doing something.

Emilie: ISABELLE.

Isabelle: I know. I know.

Emilie: This is years of being the responsible one catching up to you.

Isabelle: He even packed snacks??

Emilie: That sounds horrible.

Isabelle: Shut up.

Emilie: Seriously, why are you texting me? Shouldn’t you be enjoying this?

Isabelle: I think my body is rejecting the concept of not having to plan or worry about anyone else.

Emilie: That is a you problem.

Isabelle: He just told me we have a boat day tomorrow. I didn’t even know we had a boat day tomorrow.

Emilie: And what are you expected to do?

Isabelle: Nothing. Just be there.

Emilie: …Okay, I sort of get why you’re spiraling.

Isabelle: Right???

Emilie: But also. Isabelle. Sweetheart. This is what happens when you date someone who pays attention and puts in effort.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: STOP SAYING ‘HUH’ LIKE YOU JUST DISCOVERED FIRE.

Isabelle: I think I have discovered fire.

Emilie: You’re dating Max Verstappen. Not one of your brothers.

Isabelle: I just… I didn’t think I was this bad at being taken care of.

Emilie: You are. But the good news? You’re learning.

Isabelle: …Maybe.

Emilie: Definitely. Now relax and let your very rich, very organized boyfriend spoil you.

Isabelle: Huh.

Emilie: I’m blocking you.

***

The light was warm and low, spilling through the palm trees and painting the terrace in soft amber.

Isabelle sat with her knees pulled up on the oversized lounger, still in her swimsuit and one of Max’s linen shirts, damp curls tucked behind her ears. Her sketchbook was open on her lap, untouched, pencil resting against the paper. She hadn’t drawn a single thing in an hour.

She was too content to move.

Max sat beside her, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, sipping from a glass of something cold and citrusy. The sea whispered in the background. He hadn’t looked at his phone in hours.

They were quiet.

It wasn’t silence that needed to be filled. It was just safe.

She turned her head and found him watching her.

“What?” she asked softly.

Max tilted his head. “You know what would be nice?”

“Tell me.”

“If you met my family before Zandvoort.”

The question landed so gently she almost didn’t realize it was a question. It was just Max—calm, steady, offering something important like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t just opened a door and waited for her to walk through it.

Isabelle blinked. “Before Zandvoort?”

He nodded. “Just a quiet dinner. In Belgium maybe, or Monaco, whatever’s easier. My dad. Mum. Victoria. Tom. Their kids. No pressure.”

Isabelle looked down at her sketchbook. Her heart fluttered.

Meeting Max’s family wasn’t something she’d let herself think about—not seriously. Because what they had felt big sometimes, and big things had a habit of slipping away if she looked at them too hard.

But Max?

Max never made her feel like she had to earn her place.

She looked back up, searching his face. “Are you sure?”

Max smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world. “They’ll love you.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “And… if they don’t?”

“They will,” he said, without hesitation. “But if they didn’t—which they will—I still would. That’s what matters.”

Her throat went tight.

“You don’t have to say yes now,” he added, quieter now, reaching for her hand. “But I want you there. I want them to know you like I do.”

She leaned in and kissed his shoulder, then tucked herself under his arm.

“I want that too,” she whispered. “Okay. Before Zandvoort.”

He squeezed her hand.

And for a while, they just sat there as the sun dipped into the ocean, a promise tucked between them like something sacred.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: Zandvoort’s coming up. Arthur, you good with logistics?

Arthur: Yep. I’m flying in Tuesday morning.

Isabelle: Hey— I’m actually in the Netherlands that week for a work event. Rotterdam. I was thinking… if you two are okay with it, I could come to Zandvoort for the weekend? I’d love to watch you both race.

Arthur: Yeah, totally. That’d be nice.

Charles: Definitely, yeah. It would be nice to have you there.

Arthur: We’ll have Ferrari add you to the room block, right, Charles?

Charles: Yeah, yeah. Easy. I’ll let the team know you’re joining.

Isabelle: Okay! I’ll come down Friday morning after my meetings wrap up. Can’t wait to see you both.

Arthur: Bring those granola bars you had at Silverstone.

Charles: Bring some for me too.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: He wants me to meet his family before Zandvoort.

Isabelle: His entire family.

Isabelle: Dinner. At his mother's house. No pressure apparently.

Emilie: Max Verstappen just casually inviting you into the lion’s den. Classic.

Emilie: Are you freaking out?

Isabelle: I am in a controlled state of panic.

Emilie: You do realize you’re literally the perfect daughter-in-law, right?

Emilie: You’re quiet, polite, absurdly thoughtful, and stunning in a soft-lighting European cinema kind of way.

Isabelle: I am really not.

Emilie: You listen. You make people feel calm just by existing.

Emilie: His family will LOVE you.

Emilie: And if they don’t, that’s not a reflection of you.

Emilie: It’s a red flag, and I’ll show up swinging.

Isabelle: He was so casual about it. “They’ll love you,” he said. Just like that. No hesitation.

Emilie: Because he knows they will. Max isn’t casual about anything he doesn’t absolutely mean.

Isabelle: What if I forget how to talk? Or what if Victoria is terrifying?

Emilie: You talk when you have something worth saying. And Victoria? She’ll adore you. You’re going to be her sons' new favorite person within five minutes. Probably less.

Emilie: You don’t have to prove anything, Belle. You just have to show up. The rest takes care of itself. You’re already his family. The rest is just the intro.

Isabelle: I love you.

Emilie: I know. Be polite and devastatingly charming at dinner.

***

Isabelle had been in high-pressure situations before.

Final exams, high-stakes client presentations, being the only woman in a room full of men twice her age who thought she was just there to take notes—none of those compared to standing in the Verstappen family home, about to meet Max’s family for the first time.

Max had assured her it would be fine. He’d been so casual about it, telling her “They’ll love you,” like it was a certainty. But then again, he already loved her, and he’d made that seem inevitable, too.

The door opened before she could finish that thought, and suddenly, she was being yanked inside by an overenthusiastic blonde.

"Finally!" Victoria Verstappen declared, looping an arm around Isabelle’s before she even had a chance to say hello. "I was beginning to think you were a myth."

Max rolled his eyes, following them inside. "I literally told you about her months ago. You have talked to her."

"And yet, this is the first time I’m meeting her," Victoria shot back before turning to Isabelle with a knowing grin. "Ignore him. I already love you, by the way."

"That’s… good," Isabelle said, slightly breathless from the whirlwind welcome. "I’d hate to be off to a bad start."

"Not possible," Victoria declared before releasing her and giving Max a pointed look. "You never bring anyone home. I don’t care who she is. She could be an alien, and I’d still be thrilled."

Max sighed. "She’s not an alien."

"Shame," Victoria said with a dramatic sigh before linking their arms again. "Come on. Mum is dying to meet you."

They were halfway through the house before Isabelle even had a chance to look around properly. It was warm and inviting—the kind of place where people laughed loudly at the dinner table and where childhood photos still hung on the walls.

She barely had time to take in the framed pictures before she was pulled into a hug by a woman who could only be Sophie Kumpen.

"Isabelle," she said warmly, squeezing her hands when she pulled back. "It’s so lovely to finally meet you."

"You too," Isabelle said sincerely.

"Max has told me so much about you," Sophie continued, giving her son a pointed look. "I was beginning to think he’d made you up."

Victoria cackled. "That’s what I said!"

Max groaned. "Why does everyone think I’m lying?"

Before anyone could answer, another voice cut through the conversation.

"You’re Charles’ sister."

The room shifted slightly as all attention turned to Jos Verstappen.

Max tensed beside her, and Victoria, who had been all smiles just moments ago, pressed her lips together in something that looked suspiciously like exasperation.

But Isabelle didn’t waver. She turned to look at him and nodded. "Yes."

Jos hummed, gaze sharp. Then silence.

It stretched long enough that Max was clearly about to intervene, but before he could, Sophie clapped her hands together, cutting through the tension like it was nothing.

"Let’s sit," she said, smiling as if Jos hadn’t just been scrutinizing Isabelle like she was an opponent on track. "I made tea."

The conversation moved on, shifting to lighter topics—Victoria’s kids, Sophie’s recent travels, Max’s upcoming races. But Isabelle could still feel Jos’ gaze on her, quietly assessing.

Max never let go of her hand.

It wasn’t until much later, after dinner, after Victoria’s sons had climbed all over Isabelle and decided that she was their new favourite person, when the conversation had lulled and Isabelle was helping Sophie clear the table, that Jos spoke to her again.

"You’re an architect?"

She turned, nodding. "Yes."

"That takes discipline."

"It does."

He studied her for a long moment. Then— "Max needs someone like that."

It wasn’t outright approval. It wasn’t exactly warm.

But it was something.

And when Max returned, slinging an arm around her shoulders like he had no intention of letting her go, Isabelle decided it was enough.

***

The lobby was nice in that neutral, five-star motorsport weekend kind of way. Polished stone floors, a curated floral arrangement on the front desk, one of those confusing water features that seemed to exist purely for aesthetic drama.

Isabelle smiled at the receptionist with practiced ease, suitcase in hand, lanyard tucked into her coat pocket.

She was exhausted, having run herself ragged over the last few days with a client install in Rotterdam. She had managed to wrap that up, just in time to catch the train towards Zandvoort with only a small amount of cursing.

“Hi, I should have a room with the Ferrari team block? Leclerc?”

The receptionist tapped quickly on the keyboard. Pause. Frown. Tap again.

Isabelle kept smiling. She knew this look.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said kindly. “I don’t see a reservation under your name.”

“Oh,” Isabelle replied, blinking once. “Could you check again? Maybe under Charles or Arthur?”

More typing. The woman’s brows drew together. “They both have rooms, but… there’s nothing additional listed. I don’t see a third Leclerc on the team list. And all our rooms are booked for tonight.”

Isabelle nodded, her face still polite. “Right. No worries.”

Because what else could she say?

Because of course, they’d forgotten.

It wasn’t even anger that hit her. Just a quiet, familiar ache, the kind that wrapped itself around her ribs and pressed in slowly.

She stepped away from the counter, wheeling her suitcase off to the side. The hotel lobby was buzzing—PR people, Ferrari junior drivers, Red Bull interns in matching polos. People who had rooms. People who had plans.

She pulled out her phone and opened a message thread she knew she could trust.

To: Max

Apparently I do not exist to the Ferrari logistics team. I promise I’m not trying to be dramatic. I just… don’t really know what to do right now.

The three dots popped up immediately.

Max: Room 706.

Isabelle: Max, I don’t want to cause a scene.

Max: You’re not. You’re coming upstairs. You’re not spending the night in the lobby because your brothers forgot you.

Isabelle: You’re busy. I don’t want to be in the way.

Max: You’re not in the way. You’re mine. Room 706. Come up. The door is open. You’ve got a place with me. Always.

She stared at the message for a moment, biting her lip.

No one had ever said it like that. Not her family. Not even past relationships. Like she wasn’t something to accommodate but someone who belonged.

Then, gathering her bag, she stood and waited by the elevators, wondering how something as painful as being forgotten could still land her exactly where she was supposed to be.

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had seen Max Verstappen through just about everything.

From raw, sharp-edged teenager to relentless world champion. From radio meltdowns to perfect laps in impossible conditions. From reckless frustration to the rare, still moments where he let his guard down—just enough to be human.

But over the past five months, GP had noticed him changing once again.

It wasn’t dramatic. Max hadn’t started writing poetry or singing love songs. There were no fireworks, no sweeping declarations.

It was quieter than that.

He smiled more.

Texted back.

Stopped snapping at the comms team over small things.

Started asking if someone else��needed anything before the garage debrief ended.

And then there were the little tells. Subtle changes GP clocked because he always clocked them.

The way Max would glance at his phone with a barely-there smile. The occasional “oh, she’d like this” muttered at a merch stand or a snack table.

She.

GP hadn’t needed to ask who.

Because he had known since Max started asking him for relationship advice. Because clearly, GP was a fountain of romantic wisdom because GP had somehow managed to persuade his wife to take pity of him and marry him.

GP had observed.

Had allowed his eyes to track Isabelle Leclerc whenever she happened to show up at a race. He’d seen her in the background. Quiet. Observing. Never trying to claim space that wasn’t offered.

Isabelle Leclerc.

The girl with the soft voice and sharper eyes.

She wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t chasing the spotlight.

Which was probably why Max was so hopelessly gone for her.

So when Max looked at his phone mid-dinner and smiled—really smiled—GP didn’t need to ask who it was.

He just sighed.

And then he watched how Max’s whole body language changed in an instance, swallowing the bite of food he had just taken, his jaw clenching, tapping on his phone with barely contained rage.

GP raised an eyebrow. “Emergency?”

Max stood and muttered, “Kind of,” before grabbing his room key and disappearing into the hallway without another word.

GP blinked. “...What?”

He took a bite of luke warm pasta, leaned back, and waited. Max was many things—brilliant, intense, chronically infuriating—but he wasn’t cryptic without reason.

And GP hated when Max was cryptic.

The door opened again.

And Max walked in with Isabelle Leclerc.

GP blinked.

For a split second, he thought he was hallucinating. Maybe something in the hotel pasta had finally triggered a stress-induced fever dream.

But no. There she was. Real, flushed with embarrassment, wearing a coat and carrying a travel bag, clearly trying to disappear into the carpet.

Max, looking infuriatingly casual: “GP, this is Isabelle.”

As if GP didn’t know exactly who she was.

Leclerc.

As in Charles Leclerc’s sister.

As in "Ferrari’s Golden Boy Is Going To Break The FIA When He Finds Out You’re Sleeping With His Sister" Leclerc.

GP set down his fork. Slowly. Carefully.

“Hi,” she said softly. “Sorry. This isn’t how I pictured meeting you.”

GP blinked.

“She didn’t have a hotel room,” Max added, like that explained everything.

“So you invited her to your room,” GP said flatly.

Isabelle turned even pinker. “I didn’t know he wasn’t alone.”

GP stared at Max, then at her, then back at Max, who had the gall to sip his water like they weren’t seconds away from becoming a tabloid headline.

“In the Netherlands,” GP clarified.

“Yes,” Max said.

“During your home Grand Prix.”

“Yes.”

GP took a long, slow breath. “Perfectly reasonable.”

Max didn’t even blink.

Isabelle, bless her, looked like she wanted to apologize for existing. “I can go…”

GP waved her off. “No, no, please. You’re already more pleasant than he is.”

Max threw a piece of bread at him.

GP caught it midair without looking.

Then he sighed.

“What do you mean she didn’t have a room?” he asked Max with a raised eyebrow.

“She thought her brothers had booked her one,” Max said, like he wasn’t holding back fury with every word. “They didn’t.”

GP’s fork hit the table. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

GP turned to Isabelle, who was doing her best to shrink into her jacket. “They left you without a room?”

“I think they forgot I was coming,” she said, voice light, like it didn’t sting. Like it didn’t matter. “It’s okay. I just didn’t want to make a fuss tonight.”

Max’s jaw clenched.

And GP—who had been mad at Max for a million things over the years—suddenly wanted to march down the hall and yell at two grown men for treating their sister like a misplaced backpack.

“You’re staying here tonight,” Max said firmly. “End of discussion.”

GP crossed his arms. “I mean—yes. Obviously. But still. You’re telling me neither of them noticed?”

Isabelle looked away. “I guess not.”

Max let out a low, sharp breath through his nose.

It wasn’t just annoyance. It was rage. But the quiet kind. The kind Max only reserved for people who hurt the very small handful of people he actually loved.

Max rubbed a hand over his face and stood. Walked across the room. Paced, like he had no idea what to do with the fury crawling under his skin.

“She’s staying here,” he said again, turning to GP.

“Obviously.”

GP looked at Isabelle more gently now. “For what it’s worth, they’re idiots.”

Isabelle smiled faintly. “I’m kind of used to it.”

Max stopped pacing and came to stand beside her. He didn’t touch her—not yet—but the tension in his jaw said everything.

He was furious. Not just on her behalf, but because deep down, he’d known this would happen. And he hadn’t been there in time to stop it.

“You deserve better,” Max said quietly, only for her.

GP cleared his throat. “Okay. Well. I’m going to leave you two alone before I throw something.”

Isabelle blinked. “Wait—you’re mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” GP muttered. “Just not at you.”

He grabbed his notes, paused in the doorway, and said to Max: “I want you in bed in the next thirty minutes.”

Max smirked.

GP pointed at him. “Don’t.”

Then he looked at Isabelle again. Really looked.

And in that second, watching the way Max’s entire body shifted around her—the protectiveness, the softness, the calm—GP felt the sharp edge of his frustration melt into something else.

Respect.

“You’re good for him,” he said simply.

Isabelle’s eyes widened a little. “Thank you.”

“And Max?” GP said one last time. “If they forget her again—I will. Personally. Book. Her. A. Room.”

Max nodded solemnly. “Noted.”

GP closed the door behind him.

And in the hallway, alone, he muttered:

“Goddamn Leclerc brothers. Idiots, the lot of them.”

Then: “...But at least Max got something right.”

***

The door clicked shut behind GP, and the room fell into a thick, heavy silence.

Isabelle was still standing near the foot of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. She looked small. Not fragile—but like someone who’d been holding herself upright for hours longer than she should’ve.

Max crossed the room and gently took the travel bag from her shoulder.

“You can relax now,” he said quietly.

She gave him a weak smile. “I didn’t mean to crash dinner.”

“You didn’t,” he replied. “We were already nearly done.”

He set her bag down carefully by the armchair and turned back to her, studying her face. She looked pale beneath the overhead lights, cheeks still flushed from the hallway chill. Her eyes had the telltale glassiness of someone who was trying very hard not to cry out of sheer exhaustion.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

She blinked. “I—what?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

She blinked. “Um… this morning?”

“This morning,” he repeated, and it came out sharper than he meant it to.

She winced. “I didn’t have time, Max. It’s not a big deal.”

He turned and stalked toward the room service menu like he needed somewhere to put the anger. Not at her. Never at her.

But her brothers?

They had let her show up to Zandvoort and forgotten to book her a room.

And now here she was—exhausted, underfed, and still trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like being forgotten was normal.

He pulled the phone off the receiver and ordered something warm. Soup. Bread. Tea.

She hovered by the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself.

“Don’t make a whole thing out of this,” she said, voice small.

He looked at her. “Making sure you had a place to sleep? A meal? That’s not a whole thing, that’s the bare minimum.”

“I know, I know.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I just—I didn’t want to make a fuss. Charles was already stressed about media stuff and Arthur was busy with something…”

“And they forgot about you,” Max said flatly. “Again.”

“Max.”

“I’m not going to yell at them,” he said, trying to tamp down the fire crawling up his throat. “But don’t ask me to pretend it’s okay. It’s not.”

She sank onto the edge of the bed, hands curled in her lap. “If I get upset, they make me feel like I’m overreacting. If I don’t say anything, I get forgotten. It’s like—I’m either too much or invisible.”

Max crossed the room, crouched in front of her. Rested his hands on her knees, grounding.

“You are not too much,” he said. “And you are never invisible. Not to me.”

She blinked hard, closing her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands against them. He just looked at her, at the shaky way she exhaled.

There was a knock at the door. Room service.

She tried to stand up, but he squeezed her hand.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “You just… sit. Please.”

He brought the tray over himself—soup, warm rolls, tea already steeping in the pot—and set it on the table in front of the window. Isabelle sat cross-legged on the bed, watching him like he might vanish if she blinked too hard.

“Eat first,” he said softly.

She hesitated for a moment—then nodded and reached for the spoon.

Halfway through the meal, she finally looked a little more like herself. Less pale. Less folded in on herself. Her shoulders relaxed. She leaned into his side, one hand resting on his knee, like she needed to stay grounded.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He kissed the top of her head.

“You’re mine,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

She didn’t say anything back. But she reached for his hand under the table, tangled their fingers, and held on tight.

And that was enough.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: My brothers left for the track without me.

Isabelle: They literally forgot I was even staying in the same hotel.

Isabelle: I came downstairs and the receptionist said, “Your family already left.” Like I was late for a school trip.

Isabelle: I know you’re busy, I just… needed to tell someone before I screamed into a decorative pillow.

Max: Are you serious?

Max: Stay right there. I’m sending someone now. You’re not taking a taxi like some fan on a giveaway pass.

Isabelle: Max, it’s fine—

Max: No, it’s not.

Isabelle: You don’t have to fix everything.

Max: I want to fix this.

Max: Stay where you are.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

Max: Are you still at the hotel?

Daniel: Yeah, just finishing my coffee. Why?

Max: Can you give someone a ride to the track?

Daniel: Yeah, no worries. Who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc. Her brothers left without her.

Daniel: Wait. Charles’ Isabelle?

Max: Yeah.

Daniel: Why is she not with them?

Max: They forgot her.

Daniel: …Brutal. Alright, I’ll head down and grab her.

Max: Thanks. Be nice.

Daniel: When am I not nice?

Max: Don’t answer that.

Daniel: So… why are you arranging this?

Daniel: Since when are you a Leclerc family concierge?

Max: Since right now. Go get her.

Daniel: Alright alright, I’m going.

Daniel: You’re weirdly invested in this.

***

Daniel Ricciardo had done a lot of weird favors in his life—once helped a teammate move house using a go-kart trailer, once lied to a customs officer about being allergic to oranges just to dodge a fruit declaration—but picking up Isabelle Leclerc from the hotel lobby because her own brothers had forgotten her? This one was top tier.

He didn’t know Isabelle well—he’d met her a handful of times, mostly quiet paddock hellos and awkward “Charles’ little sister” nods—but he was 100% sure she didn’t deserve to be ditched like a stray sock in a hotel lobby.

Who does that to their sister?

He had a sister. If someone had left Michelle behind at a race weekend? He’d have thrown hands. The thought of Isabelle, standing in some quiet hotel lobby while her brothers sped off to the circuit like she was an afterthought—it made his blood simmer.

He spotted her right away: sunglasses on, hair in a braid, sitting quietly in one of those fancy lobby chairs that always looked too stiff to be comfortable. She stood when she saw him, smoothing her skirt and lifting a tote bag onto her shoulder with calm, effortless grace.

“Hey,” he said, waving. “Max sent me.”

“I figured,” she said with a small smile. “Thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He gestured toward the car. “Although I’ve gotta say, you being stranded wasn’t on my bingo card for today.”

She let out a soft laugh as they walked. “It wasn’t on mine either.”

“I mean—how do they forget you?” he asked, a little incredulous now. “You’re their sister. This isn’t like forgetting your phone charger.”

“They’re… busy,” Isabelle said diplomatically, as if that explained everything. Her voice was soft, her expression sincere, and it made something tug in his chest. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t throwing a fit. She wasn’t calling her brothers to scream at them.

She was just… taking it.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

“Seriously,” he said as they headed to the car, “they just left without you?”

“They’re not very detail-oriented,” she said with a light shrug, like she was used to making excuses for them.

Daniel frowned. “They’re your brothers, not a logistics team.”

She just smiled a little. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t.

He opened the door for her and tried not to seethe the entire way to the circuit.

The silence in the car was comfortable, oddly enough. Isabelle looked out the window, the sunlight catching in her hair. She smelled like something soft and green and expensive—not perfume-y, just... nice. Warm.

“So,” he said after a moment, “you and Max talk much?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Sometimes.”

He narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t explain anything when he asked me to pick you up.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He just said you needed a ride, and that I was supposed to be nice.”

She smiled to herself. “That sounds like him.”

Daniel watched her for a beat longer. There was something easy in how she spoke about Max. Something familiar. Something… personal.

Suspicious.

He knew that tone. It was the same one Michelle used when she pretended she wasn’t dating her coworker. The same one his friends used when they were trying not to spill the beans too early.

Then, the kicker: her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, read the screen, and her entire expression softened—smile tugging at the corner of her mouth in a way that made her glow.

Daniel caught a glimpse of the contact name.

Max. With a little heart emoji.

And that was it.

The lightbulb went on.

“You’re with Max,” he blurted out.

Isabelle blinked. “Sorry?”

“You’re dating him.”

She blinked again, clearly debating denial… then gave up with a sigh and a smile. “Please don’t tell Charles.”

He gasped. “Charles doesn’t know.”

“Daniel…”

“I can’t unknow this now, Isabelle! This is, like, Top Secret Gossip of the Year! You can’t just hand me this emotional grenade and expect me not to panic!”

She laughed then—soft and real—and Daniel blinked. She looked… happy. Actually, genuinely happy.

He slowed down a little. “So… you’re good? With him?”

She nodded. “Better than I ever thought I could be.”

Daniel let out a long breath and shook his head. “Okay. Fine. I’ll take it to the grave. But when Charles finds out, I’m not in the room. I’m not even in the country.”

***

The paddock was buzzing, media wrapping up, and Max had just emerged from debrief when Daniel cornered him like a man on a mission.

“Hey,” Daniel said, arms crossed. “We need to talk.”

Max raised an eyebrow, completely unsurprised. “About?”

“You know what about,” Daniel said. “Don’t play dumb.”

Max took a sip of his Red Bull, deadpan. “You found out.”

“I picked her up from the hotel,” Daniel snapped. “I drove her. I talked to her for fifteen minutes. She’s warm, she’s kind, she listens—Max, she’s human sunshine.”

Max smirked, because yeah. Isabelle kind of was.

“Also? Her brothers left her behind this morning. They forgot her. Like she was a damn charger cable.”

Max exhaled through his nose. “They also forgot to book her a room,” Max said, voice going tight.

“…What?”

“Last night,” Max said. “She got to the hotel and found out Charles and Arthur hadn’t added her to the Ferrari room block. She had nowhere to sleep.”

Daniel stared at him. “So what did she do?”

“She texted me.”

“You’re telling me she didn’t even call them? She just quietly… what, curled up in a hallway with a travel bag and a dream?”

Max ran a hand through his hair. “I told her to come upstairs. She’s staying with me.”

Daniel muttered something that vaguely sounded like a threat.

“I mean—look, Max, I’ve seen people be casually inconsiderate before. But this? This is Olympic-level. This is gold medal negligence.”

“She wasn’t even mad,” Max said, and the quiet in his voice was far more telling than any shout. “She just said she didn’t want to make a fuss.”

Daniel’s shoulders dropped.

“Jesus.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of it hanging between them. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw set.

“I hate that she’s used to it,” he said finally. “The way she just… accepts it. Like being overlooked is normal.”

Daniel looked at him, something softer settling into his expression. “And you’re not gonna let that happen anymore.”

Max shook his head. “Not from me.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “Good. But I am still wondering, how the hell did you end up with Isabelle Leclerc? I watched you ghost half of Europe. I watched you emotionally flatline your way through every relationship like you were waiting for a fire drill. And now you’re with her?”

Max looked up, expression shifting from amused to something quieter. Something real. “Yeah. I am.”

Daniel paused. “You’re serious about her.” It wasn’t a question.

Max’s expression shifted—still calm, but quieter now. More grounded. “Yeah. I am.”

Daniel sighed, shaking his head with a grin. “You really are in deep, huh?”

Max nodded. “Very.”

There was a beat of silence.

Daniel exhaled, some of the theatrics melting away. “Okay. Okay. That’s good. Because she’s too good for you.”

Max chuckled. “I know.”

“No, like, really too good. You forget her birthday? I’ll kill you. You mess up and she cries? I will haunt you.”

Max sobered slightly. “I’m not going to hurt her.”

“I know,” Daniel said. “But I had to say it. It’s the law. Shovel talk protocol.” Daniel pointed at him again, this time less dramatic, more protective. “She’s quiet. She’s kind. She doesn’t push. That kind of girl? People forget to treat her like she matters. You don’t get to be one of them.”

“I know,” Max said instantly.

“I’m serious. You hurt her? You even accidentally make her feel like she’s less than everything? I will become your personal nightmare.”

Max nodded slowly. “Fair.”

Daniel exhaled. “Okay. Good.”

Another pause.

Then: “Also, bro. You’re screwed when Charles finds out.”

Max cracked a faint smile. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m just saying,” Daniel said, standing up, “I’d start investing in body armor. And maybe bribe Fred Vasseur.”

“I already told Victoria and Sophie,” Max said. “Jos knows too.”

Daniel turned mid-step. “So everyone in your family knows, and no one in hers?”

Max just raised his hands helplessly.

Daniel whistled. “Wow. Balls of steel, man.” Then, after a beat: “I still can’t believe you’re the one who pulled this off.”

Max grinned. “Me either.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “If you propose before Charles finds out, I’m not helping you escape.”

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Are you already at the circuit?

Victoria: Just pulling in. Got Luka. Snacks. One million toddler wipes. Why?

Max: I need a favor.

Victoria: This sounds serious.

Max: It is. Isabelle’s here. Her brothers left without her this morning. Yesterday, they forgot to book her a room. She was alone at the hotel with nowhere to go.

Victoria: You’re kidding.

Max: I wish I was. I found out when she texted me.

Victoria: She texted you instead of calling them?

Max: Said she didn’t want to make a fuss.

Victoria: That’s not a fuss. That’s basic human decency.

Victoria: What the hell is wrong with her brothers? Did they think she just… didn’t exist this weekend?

Max: I don’t think they thought at all.

Max: I’ve got her staying with me, obviously. But I’m at the car most of the day. Can you… I don’t know. Just keep an eye on her?

Victoria: I’m already on it. I’ll find her. Luka adores her anyway.

Max: Thank you.

Victoria: Also—Max?

Max: Yeah?

Victoria: You’re doing good. For her. I can tell.

Max: I just want her to feel safe.

Victoria: She does. That’s why she called you.

***

The Ferrari garage buzzed with the usual race day chaos—engineers shouting data, mechanics darting between screens and tires, media cameras hovering just out of reach.

Isabelle stood off to the side, tucked just behind a stack of spare tires. She had her accreditation lanyard looped around one wrist, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable.

No one had said anything to her.

Not Charles. Not Arthur.

Not a single “where were you?”

No one had noticed she hadn’t arrived with them.

Not even when she slipped through the paddock gate forty minutes late with Daniel Ricciardo, who’d given her a cheerful wave and then glanced back at her with a concerned little frown, like he could feel her shrinking into herself.

She hadn’t told them. Hadn’t reminded them. It felt pathetic, like trying to make a dent in something carved from stone.

So she watched them from the background. Charles adjusting his earpiece. Arthur laughing with his race engineer. Everyone moving like she was part of the set dressing—quiet, reliable, conveniently invisible.

Her phone buzzed.

Victoria Verstappen:

Come to Red Bull hospitality. We have fruit, juice boxes, and a child who keeps asking where you are.

A second later:

Victoria Verstappen:

He refuses to eat his banana unless you’re here. Help me.

Isabelle smiled before she could stop herself.

She glanced back at the garage—no one looking, no one asking, no one even noticing she was there—then quietly turned and slipped out through the paddock gate.

The moment she stepped into Red Bull’s space, it was like the air changed. Quieter. Calmer. The edges softened.

And then—

“Belle!”

Luka barreled into her legs like a small, over-caffeinated torpedo, throwing his arms around her knees and looking up with wide, expectant eyes. His curls were slightly flattened from his bucket hat, and his juice box was clutched precariously in one hand.

“I saved you a banana,” he said solemnly.

Isabelle crouched down, her heart tightening. “You did?”

He nodded. “Mum said I had to eat fruit, but I said ‘no’ until you came.”

Behind him, Victoria appeared, holding a mostly squished banana and a tired smile.

“You’re now officially the only person Luka will eat produce for. Congratulations,” she said, handing Isabelle the banana.

Isabelle stood and hugged her. “You okay?” Victoria asked gently.

Isabelle hesitated. “I’m fine.”

Victoria just arched a brow.

“I mean—I’m okay,” Isabelle corrected. “A little tired. It’s been a weird weekend.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Victoria said. “Max already told me everything.”

Isabelle winced. “Of course he did.”

“Don’t worry. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Very seriously. Like I was being recruited for a mission.”

Isabelle blinked. “He what?”

Victoria shrugged. “You’re important to him. Of course he’s worried.”

Luka tugged on Isabelle’s sleeve. “Wanna draw race cars?”

“I would love to draw race cars,” she said, letting him take her hand.

Victoria reached for a juice pouch and smiled softly at her over Luka’s curls. “Come sit with us. Eat something. You don’t have to go back to that garage today. No one there deserves your company.”

And Isabelle—still tired, still aching in that quiet, unseen way—followed.

Because it wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t flashy.

But it felt like home.

***

Victoria had known Isabelle Leclerc for years without really knowing her.

A couple of polite nods in paddocks. One or two mutual “Happy Birthday” comments under photos. That sort of F1-adjacent proximity that meant you were vaguely aware of someone’s life through a filtered lens of curated smiles and race weekend lighting.

And then her brother had fallen in love with her.

And that had changed everything.

Somewhere between a soft photo of Lio holding a wooden toy horse and Isabelle quietly liking every story Victoria posted about motherhood, something shifted.

Their friendship had started in Instagram DMs and lessons of dutch.

And now, sitting on the plush couch in the Red Bull family lounge, Victoria watched Isabelle cradle Luka like she’d been made for it.

He was wrapped around her torso like a baby monkey, eyes already drifting shut, his small hand clinging to the neckline of her cardigan. Isabelle’s hand was in his hair, gently combing through the curls with practiced ease.

Victoria’s heart clenched.

Max had chosen well.

Not because Isabelle was sweet (though she was), or thoughtful (painfully so), or talented (clearly), but because Max had never once let anyone in like this.

He had flings. Flirtations. A relationship or two that never made it past the media glare.

But this?

Isabelle, sitting cross-legged at a coloring table, nodding patiently as Luka explained crayon colours with the enthusiasm of a sugar-high professor?

This was different.

This was real.

And when Max had texted her that morning —Can you keep an eye on her?—Victoria hadn’t even blinked.

Because she knew.

He wasn’t asking out of obligation.

He was asking because Isabelle mattered. Because she was his person. Because her quiet pain had become his problem to carry, and Max Verstappen had never once backed down from something he gave a damn about.

Victoria watched Isabelle gently brush Luka’s hair out of his eyes as he leaned too close to the table, crayon smearing on his elbow, and something in her chest ached.

Because she’d also seen the way Isabelle’s brothers looked past her. The way they forgot her. The way she was a fixture—not a presence. Easy to love from a distance, easier still to forget when something shinier demanded attention.

It made her furious.

It made her want to storm the Ferrari garage and shake Charles and Arthur like snow globes until they remembered who the hell their sister was.

Because if a three-year-old could recognize her worth after one afternoon, what excuse did they have?

Victoria was still fuming quietly when the door to hospitality opened—and Max stepped out onto the terrace.

He spotted them instantly. His shoulders dropped just a little. Not with weariness, but relief.

He crossed the room toward them, his steps sure and unhurried.

And when Isabelle looked up and lit up—not with surprise, not with hesitation, but that soft, unmistakable joy that came from knowing someone was hers—Victoria exhaled.

Max reached them, crouched beside Luka first.

“Hey, little man,” he said, ruffling his hair.

“Max!” Luka beamed. “We made cars!”

“Very impressive,” Max said, scanning the drawings. “Yours definitely wins in the flame department.”

Then he looked at Isabelle.

Their eyes met.

No one said anything for a beat. They didn’t need to.

Max touched her wrist gently. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Better now.”

And Victoria—who’d seen every version of her brother: stormy, closed-off, sharp-edged and impossible—watched as his whole expression softened into something rare.

Something like peace.

She smiled to herself, sipping her drink again.

About time.

Max hadn’t just fallen in love with her.

He’d gotten it right.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1Sleuth: GUYS. I was at Zandvoort today and I just saw Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc talking in the paddock like they’re actual best friends??? Since when???

↳@/GridGossip: You’re lying.

↳@/TifosiNation: They follow each other on Instagram now, so maybe it’s not that surprising???

↳@/RedBullRumors: But like… why do they know each other that well?

↳@/PaddockSpy: Do you have PICTURES?

@/F1Sleuth: I couldn’t get a clear photo, but I swear to god Victoria’s little boy was obsessed with Isabelle. Like, full-on clinging to her, as they were sitting in Red Bull hospitality. This was NOT a casual “oh we kind of know each other” interaction.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Excuse me?????

↳@/TifosiForever: I guess it makes sense? Isabelle was around during karting when Max and Charles were kids, so maybe she and Victoria knew each other back then?

↳@/RBfan44: Imagine if Charles and Max are rivals but their sisters became best friends instead lmao

↳@/PaddockGossip: Omg that’s adorable 🥹

@/F1GossipQueen: Maybe they just reconnected? Like old karting friends finding each other again.

↳@/RBUpdates: This is actually really cute, imagine the Verstappens and Leclercs becoming one big happy F1 family.

↳@/TifosiFan99: Charles and Max being forced into friendship because their sisters are besties is something I NEED to happen.

@/F1Sleuth: OKAY UPDATE. Max Verstappen just showed up and walked straight to Isabelle and Victoria. No hesitation. Like, he was SUPPOSED to be there.

↳@/RedBullInsider: Oh??? Oh. OH.

↳@/GridGossip: Why does this feel like a soft launch but also not at the same time???

↳@/RBfan44: I swear if Max and Isabelle are secretly besties, I’m going to lose my mind.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Besties or… 👀

↳@/PaddockRumors: Max looked so comfortable. Like this isn’t a one-time thing. Isabelle smiled at him like she was expecting him to show up.

@/F1Sleuth: MAX TOOK VICTORIA’S BABY FROM ISABELLE LIKE IT WAS THE MOST NORMAL THING IN THE WORLD. They’re just sitting there, talking, while he’s holding his nephew??? I don’t know what’s happening but I need ANSWERS.

↳ @/PaddockGossip: I’m sorry but Max holding a toddler while casually talking to Isabelle Leclerc?? That’s suspicious. That’s weird.

↳@/RBUpdates: Someone check on Charles because wtf is going on

↳@/F1Conspiracies: I feel like we’re witnessing something we’re not supposed to know about yet.

↳@/RedBullNation: Okay but imagine if they’re just actual close friends and we’re all being insane for no reason.

↳@/GridGossip: But what if we’re not? 😏

@/PaddockInsider: Charles has no idea what’s happening because he’s STILL doing media. Meanwhile, his sister is chilling with Victoria and Max like this is a normal Sunday.

↳@/TifosiFan99: Charles is going to come back and be so confused lmao

↳@/F1DramaLover: Imagine him seeing Max holding a baby next to Isabelle. He’d actually short-circuit.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Someone record his reaction PLEASE.

@/F1Sleuth: Max just leaned over and said something to Isabelle, and she laughed. Victoria said something too, and they all looked so comfortable?? This is actually driving me insane.

↳@/PaddockGossip: What is going on.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Isabelle, blink twice if you’re secretly a Red Bull spy.

↳@/RBUpdates: The way Max just sat down and started talking like this was totally normal… yeah, something’s up.

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