#Jet Engine Parts
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#AV Parts for Sale#Civil Aviation Parts Supplier#Contact AV Parts for Sale#Aircraft Parts#Business Jet Parts#Commercial Jet Parts#Jet Engine Parts#Regional Jet Parts#Aircraft Components
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Commercial Jet Aircraft Models – Find the Best Fit
Looking for commercial jet aircraft models? We’ve got you covered! We offer a variety of jet models for your needs. Fast service and reliable delivery make it easy to find the right model for you. Check out our selection today.
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Leading Supplier of Civil Aviation Parts & Jet Aircrafts in the USA - Keep Your Lines Up
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Twin-stick Tornado by Treflyn Lloyd-Roberts Via Flickr: The Defence School of Aeronautical Engineering at RAF Cosford wheeled out several airframes as part of the static display at the 2025 Cosford Air Show, including Tornado ZA320. Aircraft: Royal Air Force Panavia PA-200 Tornado GR.1(T) ZA320/JG. Location: RAF Cosford (EGWC), Shropshire, UK.
#twin#stick#Defence#School#Aeronautical#Engineering#RAF#Cosford#wheel#out#several#airframe#part#static#display#2025#Air#Show#airshow#Tornado#ZA320#Aircraft#military#heritage#aviation#jet#ground#attack#Cold#War
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Cute Engineer Boy Page - Perfect 10 Liners (EP4)
#bl series#bl drama#thai bl#thai series#my edit#perfect 10 liners#perfect 10 liners the series#episode 4#cute engineer boy page#jet x yeepun#jetyeepun#jetpun#pond x sand#pondsand#arcarm#arc x arm#I've read you nihilisticcondensedmilk and this part with Pipo is for you
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I think I finally fried my graphics card. RIP
#it went into jet engine mode when i switched hdmi and i got scared and turned the beast off#i haven't turned it back on again.yet#part of me is kind of hoping it is fried because then I MUST get a new puter#and i got a blooded tooth after having one for a while#put the other part of me is BROKE#So. thoughts and prayers everyone#i *can* afford a monthly payment but my god. where would that leave me.#in the oatmeal trenches thats where. i am too fucking old for the oatmeal trenches. save me god
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Sorry if you've already been informed of this, but in case you haven't, I just want you to know that Sam still has the teal pom pom hat! He said on the podcast that he misplaced it almost immediately and thought he had lost it, but that he found it in his bag once he got back!
NO!!! no one told me!!! 😭😭 thank you so much, that teal hat is incredibly important to me and i am delighted he still has it

^^^sam in that hat. to me tbh <3
#😭😭 BESTIE THANK YOU!!!! 🥺💕 i love getting asks. never be sorry for sending asks OR information i love knowing things. even reminded of ‘em#i understand the real life situation here#(person who sets down an item & immediately Cannot See It) (literally today thought my phone must’ve bounced out of the cart -> on my desk)#hOWEVER. in my beautiful mind palace. & also because one time calla was talking about what she & maria talked about with sam’s default bg#on all the seasons on his phone there is something sooooo 🤌 to me about sam who loves the hat so much but knows that people will comment or#note it and ‘loses’ the hat. the hat becomes beloved and therefore it is For Him. which like!!! valid!!!! i don’t really think any of them#wear too much of any kind of branded merch beyond like. cotopaxi stuff and their own jet lag which is good for monetizing and probably like#branding rights or stuff where they don’t get associated with another company or all of that legal libel or whatever. sorry i do not know#YouTube rules but i feel like people are (and sam seems to be very YouTube/business Savvy which side tangent i think adam has talked about#in the process of making jet lag where it was like sam was doing a lot of the work on design because he knew better what kinds of things#would be marketable on YouTube i.e. having the intro voiceover and other stuff that he insisted on that the two of them were like 🤥 about#but he ended up being right so!! definitely something i always have to be like SAM IS MUCH SAVVIER THAN YOU GIVE HIM CREDIT FOR bc i want#to be like haha train boy!! and give him qualities like my beloved Train Boy in my life and like. this sounds SO terrible if i phrase it#like this but the stereotype of the brilliant engineer of whatever: well have i met some (lovely. my best friends) idiot engineers. & this#is how i need to frame sam where it’s like yes he Portrays this character but he is in some ways a massive idiot. like all of us.#the transit is a hobby interest that he knows a lot about but he is very very good at people in the sense of content & relations to have#built this and ADAM is secretly more of that Neurotic Genius type in the way that he plays and i project ***** onto. anyway this is a very#very long aside that is not coherent and could’ve been summed up by saying i need to remember that sam is a frat boy [in spirit?] AND very#aware of how people may be able to perceive him POTENTIALLY.) so the hat is also his awareness of like. if i wear this hat this becomes#part of the bit. in the way them wearing the hats are the bit or while ben does probably dress in very fun outfits in real life his fun#outfits are a Thing. and he liked the hat enough to want it to not be a Thing for everyone. of course there is also the option#sam does not think about ANY of this in the slightest & is not nearly as (manipulative is a negative connotation but I’m not thesarus-ing)#as i am picturing him to be. plain phone screen doesn’t care simple joy of the hat delighted by it would wear it in the same wear he always#wears that bug sweatshirt. (again. could be a Thing he consciously does) & he truly did just think he lost it. bruh forgot a whole pumpkin#um. and it is now at this point that i have returned to reality & have to consider sam in his everyday life just out there wearing this hat#and i’m having cuteness aggression about it. world’s biggest NOOOO FUCK OFFFFF if i have to think about it pulled down!! over his ears!!!#his rosy cheeks!!! SKIING IN IT. although that probably wouldn’t work under a ski helmet but just like. in his daily life. Will it reappear#sam denby#liv in the replies#and also perhaps there is gender there but don’t ask me what i haven’t the foggiest. which is why i held off on saying anything
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jet laggers as american girl dolls
ben: ruthie


sam: kit

adam: felicity

toby: caroline


brian: molly


shia: bo

joseph: josefina


scotty: kirsten


jt: saige

dave: samantha


michelle: kavi

amy: rebecca

#this was very healing for my inner child#the way michelle is LITERALLY kavi#and adam is SUCH a felicity. i dont know how to explain it#i am NOT implying i am sam from wendover. if anything i am ben doyle or maybe michelle khare#jet lag the game#jltg#american girl#american girl dolls#ben doyle#sam denby#adam chase#toby hendy#tibees#brian mcmanus#real engineering#shia lawoof#joseph pisenti#real life lore#scotty allen#strange parts#jt chapman#second thought#dave wiskus#michelle khare#amy muller#wendover#hai#half as interesting#sam from wendover
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Commercial Jet Parts – Fast & Reliable
Need commercial jet parts? We’ve got you covered.we provide high-quality parts to keep your jet running smoothly. With fast delivery and great service, we make it easy to get the parts you need. Shop with us today for all your commercial jet part needs!
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DON'T TOUCH, DON'T DO IT p.sh - TEASER.
೨౿ ⠀ ׅ ⠀ ̇ 25k ⸝⸝ . ׅ ⸺ word count.
pairings 𝜗𝜚 street racer .ᐟ sunghoon ៹ flag girl .ᐟ school teacher .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ grumpy sunshine ˒ street racing ˒ double life
warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ smut car sex mentions of injury illegal street racing reader living a double life grumpy sunshine toxic sunghoon (he's so possessive) sunghoon has a little brother + more I will add
synopsis ୨୧ He was all sex and sin. A man you'd never dream of wanting. but you can't stay away, he was alluring and handsome and wrong for you. but that didn't keep you away, no matter how much it should. no matter how much you wanted it too.
.ᐟ rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . sexy grumpy street racer sunghoon????? sign me the FAWK up. if you'd like to be tagged comment here or send me an ask (: due date; sometime this month.....
PREVIEW :
The night hums electric, wrapped in the perfume of burnt rubber and gasoline. Somewhere in the distance, bass thuds like a heartbeat too big for a single chest. Engines growl, their roars curling up into the sky like prayers for danger. And there you are. You strut to the starting line with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how many eyes are about to follow you; and how many hearts might stall mid-beat.
Your skirt is a danger. Your top is a dare. Your hair’s whipped wild by the wind, and the smirk you wear doesn’t belong anywhere near a classroom. But it belongs here. It rules here. And Sunghoon sees it all.
He’s leaning against his jet-black car, arms crossed, leather jacket gleaming like sin under the fluorescents. He’s not supposed to look surprised, he never looks surprised, but when you appear, hips swaying, lips glossy, and nothing like the soft-spoken kindergarten teacher who gave his kid brother gold stars for good behavior — His jaw actually drops. You stop dead when your eyes meet his across the asphalt. Oh. Oh.
You blink once. Twice. Then your lips part in a slow, wicked grin that says: Yeah. It’s me. What now, street prince?
Game on.
(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox
#sunghoon smut#sunghoon imagines#park sunghoon#sunghoon#park sunghoon smut#park sunghoon imagines#enhypen imagines#enhypen smut#enhypen x reader#sunghoon x reader#park sunghoon x reader#enhypen#k pop imagines#k pop smut
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A plane fact to remember.

Summary: It started when he gave you a random plane fact, and ended with you a shivering mess in his arms as he bullied your cunt. Calebs random facts had always been a part of your life, but now, it was different.
Pairing: Plane Nerd Caleb x Reader
WC: 1.2k
Warnings: SMUT, 18+ ONLY, Mean caleb, a little dumbification, Improper use of evol, orgasm control, edging, cockwarming, light sub/dom vibes, writer doesn't know fuck all about planes so google is my co-writer, fem nicknames, use of pipsqueak
Calebs' Adjutant: @hiqhkey, @mikasaredscarf1 (tag list signup is at the end <3)
N/A: I just discovered this made it onto twitter so hello everyone from there!! Welcome to my small corner of the internet 🥹🩷

It had started innocently enough, leaning on the counter of Caleb's home in Skyhaven. He was making lemonade, chatting easily about your recent missions and his flights – you’d mentioned in passing that he never seemed to complain about turbulence, something that recently had made you nauseous on your long-haul flight. He’d raised an eyebrow at that
“Well, yeah, pips, it's easier to avoid it in a military or private jet. We don’t gotta follow the flight paths and can fly higher to avoid it. It ain’t much of an issue at 40,000ft.”
He laughed, but your eyes widened. It had been years since Caleb had spoken of his interests, his love for planes, and the weird facts he would spurt out. You still remember the first time he had told you planes could easily run on one engine – how that fact made your tiny mind explode. How could something as big as a plane still fly safely with only one engine?!
You missed it, and so, you told him that.
What you didn’t expect was to end up in his lap, his cock pushed between your pussys lips as he made you sit there. You weren’t allowed to move; you knew better than that - no matter how much friction you craved, you just had to take it. His cock felt amazing, it pushed against every nerve in the perfect way, as if just like its owner it knew all the best ways to pleasure you. His nails ran up and down your sides, head tilting with a teasing smirk.
“So plane facts then, let's make this fun, sweetheart. Your gonna sit here, all pretty on my cock and memorise everything I tell you.. if you get my questions right at the end.. ill let you cum. Okay?”
You nodded eagerly, not really thinking about what he was saying – it didn’t matter when he was inside you and not moving. Your mind was already fraying at the edges with pure need, a pure desire to feel him move, and if nodding would make that happen quicker than so be it. You only realised you may have fucked up when he leant back against the couch cushions, hands on your hips.
“Let's see.. Oh, I know. A commercial jet cruises at around 575 miles per hour – that's 75% the speed of light, pips!-“
He spoke quickly, hands slipping off your hips and flying around in the air as he spoke, making movements like a plane moving quickly. The way his eyes lit up and the smile that tugged on his lips were enough to distract you from your need for a moment.
“- it could cross the Atlantic Ocean in about 7 hours! That’s why I can get to Linkon and back so quickly.”
Always the tease, he knew what to say to fluster you and make you smile. He had made a habit of visiting you randomly, and now you knew why; it’s just because he could quickly. Lost in thought, you didn’t notice his hands moving again until they cupped your breasts, tugging on a nipple gently and making you gasp.
“Earth to pipsqueak, I haven’t finished yet. Keep listening.”
A quick nod and he was off again, yet this time, the glint in his eyes seemed more evil than playful.
“Let me tell you about the cockpit then.. You know, we don’t start planes with key fobs like you do cars. We gotta use the ignition control – basically a series of switches. They have 5 positions on them..”
His hands landed on your hips as he smirked
“First is off, like this, yeah?”
You felt him tug you left, dick finally moving – a sharp moan breaking free from your throat at the feeling.
“Then we have left.. and let's not forget right”
You were tugged right before you could recover, mouth falling open in another moan as he laughed cruelly.
“Both..”
He shifted you left and right quickly, pressing against every nerve perfectly. Your clit rubbed against him, leaving a sticky mess in its wake. Neither of you cared enough to stop, he kept shifting you until he spoke again
“and finally start.”
You felt the familiar tingling of his Evol, eyes widening as he lifted you up and down against his length. Sat back against the pillows with his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face – you looked blissed out, too far gone from finally getting the stimulation you craved to hear him finish his facts. You whined when his Evol pulled you down sharply again – holding you in place.
“Okay then.. time for Caleb's quiz, sweet girl.”
Your eyes widened as he asked his questions, the first few you got right and he rewarded you. A finger on your clit, stimulating you in a way that felt so good but, just wasn’t enough, he was playing your body like a fiddle. Make you desperate for him and only him.
It was only when you started to mess up that things became.. mean.
“Nuhu, naughty pipsqueak. The temperature drops to negative fifty degrees Celsius not 30. Remember, it’s because the engine compresses air more effectively, burning less fuel.”
His fingers stopped moving as he spoke, eyes hardening. You felt tears threaten to spill as he stopped, the friction you so desperately needed gone – you had been so close. Your orgasm was just a little push away, and now it was torn from your grasp.
“Aww, sweet girl, no, don’t cry. I should have known Pipsqueak can’t answer my questions... always disappointing me.. What should I do about that?”
He changed positions, so you were against the couch, hips moving slowly as he pretended to think. The friction was nice, but not nearly enough, and he knew that. Knew you weren’t getting what you desperately needed, he kept this up for what felt like hours-
“I’ve got it, your gonna take my cock like a good girl and not cum until I say. That’s your punishment, now be good, don’t disappoint me again.”
You heard that warning in his voice, his colonel's tone slipping through as his hips sped up. You had bratted him up once and came without permission. It wasn’t worth it, the punishment that followed, where he denied you his cock for 6 weeks was near on agony. You couldn’t do that again, refused to go through it, so you bit your lip and held your need off.
Your cult clenched and unclenched as he moved, moans spilling from your mouth that was now permanently open. He was impressed, really. Your control had improved so much from the first time you had slept together. He kept thrusting until he was close, until his stomach clenched with need, leaning into your ear, he whispered one command.
“Cum”
You fell apart, crying out his name, tears falling down your cheeks as your release finally spilled from you. He wasn’t far apart, pulling you against his chest as he spilled inside. Neither of you said anything for a long while, his fingers just ran up and down your back, smiling.
“So proud of you.. so proud of you.. That’s my good girl. That’s Caleb’s good girl.”

Likes, Comments and Reblogs are always appreciated <3
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Ethera Operation!!
You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.
Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader
Part II


You knew today was going to suck the second your alarm went off and you briefly, genuinely, considered faking your own death.
Not in a dramatic, movie-worthy kind of way. No, more like… vanish-into-a-data-breach, throw-your-phone-in-the-ocean, start-a-new-life-in-Finland sort of way.
But instead, you got up.
Because apparently, national security outranks your crippling fear of flight—not that it makes the simulator any less hellish, with its cold metal, stale coffee, and that faint chemical tang of fear.
You were strapped into the rear seat of a flight simulation pod, hands locked in your lap like they might betray you at any moment and start mashing random buttons. You exhaled slowly as your eyes flicked across the control panel. So many switches. So many lights. Half of them blinked like they were mocking you. The other half were labeled with words like “altitude” and “engine throttle” and “eject.”
Great.
You adjusted your headset as the technician’s voice crackled through. “Sim will start in thirty seconds, Doctor. We’ll be monitoring vitals and control input from the tower."
You forced a nod, even though your stomach was already trying to escape through your spine. Your breath fogged the inside of the visor. You clutched the tablet tethered to your vest like it was a stuffed animal and you were six years old again.
“Try not to scream this time,” came Cyclone’s voice through the comms, calm and flat like he was asking you to pass the salt.
You offered a shaky thumbs-up that somehow felt more like a surrender flag.
The sim operator spoke next, voice crackling through your headset once again. “Doctor, your objective is to remain conscious, keep your hands away from the panel, and activate the Ethera interface when prompted. We’ll simulate turbulence, evasive maneuvers, and mild G-force changes. Ready?”
No. Never.
“...Sure.”
The sim lurched forward with a roar, and your whole body snapped back into the seat. You let out a startled “whuff!”, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The room around you—walls disguised as sky—blurred as the machine banked hard to the left.
“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGOD—”
There was no gentle start. No soft acceleration to get your bearings. Just a violent jolt forward, and then you were climbing—straight up, like gravity had been turned into a weapon and pointed directly at your lungs.
Pressure slammed into your chest. The world outside the cockpit blurred. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat.
“WHY ARE WE TILTING—”
“Initiating evasive pattern,” came the tech’s voice, calm as ever.
The sim jerked again, this time into a sharp roll. The world flipped sideways. Your ears popped. Something primal in your brain screamed: This is how you die.
Your ears were ringing. Your pulse thundered against your ribs. Somewhere beneath the pressure and panic, you could hear the tech’s voice cutting in again—calm, detached, and utterly unhelpful.
“Doctor, you need to deploy the program,” he said. “Fifty seconds. Starting now.”
Oh, shit, you couldn’t even see straight.
Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as the simulated jet banked hard to the right, pressing your spine into the seat like it wanted to keep it. The G-forces made your vision tunnel, your stomach lurching somewhere around your throat.
Your hand fumbled toward the tablet mount, fingers shaking so hard they were basically useless. You tapped the corner of the screen. Missed. Tapped again. The jet jolted. The tablet shifted. Your palm slammed into the side instead of the input.
Forty seconds.
The Ethera prompt blinked up at you—green, glowing, go—but it may as well have been a mirage. You squinted through the dizziness, swore under your breath in three languages, and tried again.
Thirty-five.
The turbulence kicked again, harder. Your chest seized. The tablet slipped slightly in its latch. You tapped the input.
Too late.
“Simulation failed,” the system announced flatly. “Target missed.”
Everything halted—the motion, the noise—everything except your pulse, which pounded on like it hadn't gotten the memo.
The sim pod cracked open with a sharp hiss, releasing a rush of cool air that hit your sweat-slicked skin like a slap to the face. You didn’t move. For a second too long, you just sat there, fingers clenched around the armrests like they were the only things keeping you from unraveling completely. The silence pressed in, thick with the weight of your own embarrassment, humiliation settling low and heavy in your gut like a stone.
Your fingers fumbled at the release on your helmet, hands still trembling from the G-forces and adrenaline. The inside of your mouth tasted like copper and failure. You tugged off the headset next, wires dragging like they were reluctant to let go. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.
Your boots scraped against the cold floor as you shakily swung your legs out, and there he was, Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, standing with arms crossed, expression carved from steel.
You wanted to disappear into the floor.
He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… calculating. Like he was already assessing the cost of putting you on a real jet.
“I missed the mark,” you said first, because silence felt worse. “I know.”
Cyclone gave a short nod, like that much at least didn’t need explaining. “You froze.”
You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to stop trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Yeah.”
His eyes didn’t waver. “You had a job. Not to fly. Not to fight. Just to stay calm. Deploy your program.”
“I know.”
“And you failed.”
You stood on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to you, one hand gripping the edge of the simulator for balance, the other still clutching the edge of the tablet even though the prompt had long since vanished.
“If this had been real,” he continued, “that satellite would still be feeding your government false intelligence. That jet would’ve been intercepted. And you, Doctor, would’ve been dead, and so would've your pilot.”
You flinched. Not visibly—hopefully—but the words hit harder than they should have. You stared at the scuffed metal floor, heart thudding against your ribs.
“You’re not a soldier,” he said. “And you’re not trained for this. That’s clear.”
You opened your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to defend yourself—but he raised a hand, cutting you off with one sharp motion.
“That’s not an excuse,” he added, voice sharp. “It’s a reality. One you’ll have to overcome, and fast. I don’t expect perfection but I do expect progress. And I expect you to walk into that sim tomorrow knowing what you did wrong—and ready to fix it.”
You blinked hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yes, sir.”
Cyclone gave you one last look—disappointed, but not hopeless—and then turned, then paused, glancing back.
“And see medical,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re pale as hell.”
Then he walked away, boots echoing down the corridor, leaving you standing there with a spinning head, a shattered ego and the feeling of wanting to curl up and cry.
As you moved to make your way toward medical—because yes, apparently nausea, disorientation, and a near-death experience weren’t enough on their own— you skidded to a stop just short of slamming into a very broad chest.
Of course. Of course, it was him.
The handsome, mustached pilot. The one who’d handed you your tablet like it was a glass slipper, back in the briefing room. The one who hadn’t laughed when you dropped it, but definitely thought about it.
His hair was slightly mussed, curls pushed back from his forehead like he’d run a hand through them one too many times. He held two water bottles, one in each hand, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to stay—or if he’d just pretend this was a casual “what a surprise” moment if anyone asked.
You froze. He straightened.
“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you expected. A lot softer than earlier. Less smirk, more... sincerity.
“Uh… hi,” you said finally. Nailed it. Pure elegance.
His expression didn’t change much, maybe just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. He held out one of the bottles. “You looked like you could use this.”
You hesitated—more from surprise than anything else—then took it. You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His skin was warm—too warm for how cold you felt. You tried not to notice.
“Thanks,” you said quietly, unscrewing the cap with hands that still trembled, ever so slightly. The water was blissfully cold against your throat, but it did nothing for the embarrassment still curdling in your stomach.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler than you expected.
You hesitated, then tilted your head in a noncommittal shrug. “Define okay.”
A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Not crying, not puking, not passed out? That’s the general baseline.”
You cracked a reluctant laugh. “Oh, sure, I’m totally thriving.”
He nodded once, and the silence settled again—less awkward now, more… charged. The kind of quiet that hummed between words. The kind that made your skin feel too tight.
He looked like he might leave, but then he didn’t.
Instead, he shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the second water bottle like it was some kind of anchor or maybe just something to do with his hands while he said, “You weren’t terrible in there.”
Your stomach jolted—sharp, unexpected. Like missing a step on the stairs. Heat bloomed beneath your collar, crawling up your throat as your fingers tightened around the plastic water bottle.
“You…” Your voice cracked a little, and you cleared your throat. “You were watching?”
God. No.
Why did you ask that? Why would you ever want confirmation?
His expression shifted—just slightly. Not quite sheepish, not quite smug. Just something in the middle.
“I was passing by,” he said, entirely too casual.
You groaned softly, dragging a hand over your face. “Fantastic. I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of the brass. I also had an audience.”
“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice laced with something between amusement and sincerity. “We’ve all been there.”
You raised an eyebrow. “In a classified sim seat with national security riding on your ability to not pass out?”
He grinned wider. “Well. Maybe not exactly there.”
You scoff, shaking your head as you take another sip of the water.
“You’re not supposed to get it right the first time." He said, "No one does. You think the rest of us were born knowing how to pull 7 Gs without losing our lunch?”
You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe him—maybe part of you even did—but because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would come out as a laugh or a cry.
He noticed.
“You know, most people don’t get in the backseat of a fighter jet without years of prep. You? You've got a couple of days, a tech background, and a pulse. That’s it and you still got in. That counts for something.”
You stared at him. “Why do you even care if I mess this up?”
He looked at you then, long and quiet.
“You built something that could change the world,” he said with an easy shrug. “That kind of genius doesn’t come with an eject handle. So yeah. I care.”
You looked away fast, suddenly too aware of how warm your cheeks were.
He leaned back again, casual as ever. “Besides, if I'm the one you are gonna fly into enemy territory, I’d rather know you’re not gonna scream the whole time.”
You snorted. “I’ll scream quietly. Into my elbow. Like an adult.”
He chuckles and you looked at him. Really looked at him. Still in partial uniform, flight suit unzipped to the waist, sleeves tied and hanging loose around his hips. His shirt clung to his chest, slightly sweat-damp at the collar, and that damn mustache made him look both out-of-place and weirdly grounded at the same time.
He wasn’t just handsome. He was kind of infuriatingly steady.
“Can I—” You paused, surprised by your own voice. “Can I ask your name?”
His brows lifted, just slightly, like the question had caught him off guard. But then he shifted forward and extended a hand—open, easy, completely steady in a way that you most definitely weren’t.
“Bradley Bradshaw,” he said. “But most people around here call me Rooster.”
You blinked. “Rooster?”
A grin tugged at his mouth, soft and lopsided. “My call sign. It’s a long story.”
You hesitated for a beat, then reached out and slid your hand into his.
His palm was warm—really warm—and calloused in a way that made you feel every inch of the difference between your worlds. His grip was firm but not overwhelming, grounding. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply without overdoing it. His fingers curled around yours with quiet confidence, like this was nothing, like it didn’t send an unexpected little jolt of awareness all the way up your arm.
Your hand was smaller than his, your skin cooler, trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice—but something in the way his thumb shifted, just the tiniest bit, made you think maybe he did.
You weren’t sure how long you held on. Long enough to register the strength in his hand, the steadiness, the solidness of someone who lived in the sky but was somehow more grounded than anyone you knew.
“Y/N L/N,” you said finally, your voice softer now. "But I guess you already knew that.”
He gave a small nod, his eyes not leaving yours. "You're hard to forget,"
You didn’t let go right away.
Neither did he.
Then, as if realizing the moment was hanging just a second too long, you both released at the same time—too quickly. Like a secret exchanged and immediately tucked away.
You took a half step back, pulse thrumming in your throat, fingers still tingling from the contact.
Bradley, however, didn’t step away immediately instead, he lingered for just a second longer, watching you with a look that wasn’t teasing or cocky or smug. Just something quiet and steady, then he smiled—small, crooked, the kind that didn’t feel all that teasing but still carried that glint of mischief behind it. The kind of smile that said he saw more than he let on.
“You’ll get it,” he said, voice softer now. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.”
His eyes flicked to yours, and something about the way he looked at you—like he meant it, like he believed it, made your chest tighten.
“But you will.”
You opened your mouth, unsure what you were about to say—maybe thank you, maybe don’t say that unless you mean it—but the words never quite made it past your lips.
Because Bradley gave you one last look, a flick of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned down the corridor, water bottle still swinging lazily from his fingers while you stood there for a moment, then finally exhaled. “Okay,”
Days went faster than you were ready for.
You hadn’t slept much. Not from fear exactly, though there was plenty of that still hanging around like a ghost in your chest—but more from the afterglow of adrenaline. The kind that leaves your body tired but your mind racing.
You’d replayed Bradley's words a dozen times. You’ll get it. You weren’t sure if they’d stuck because you believed them… or because you wanted to.
But when you arrived at the simulator bay, you were expecting to meet with Cyclone, just like every other day, but he wasn't there waiting for you.
It was a new pilot.
She stood near the simulator controls, arms crossed loosely over her chest, already in her flight suit, her expression somewhere between mildly unimpressed and genuinely curious.
“You’re my new project, huh?” she said as you approached.
You blinked. “Um. I—guess so?”
“I’m your point of contact now,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the simulator. “Cyclone thought a different approach might help. And I volunteered.”
You tried not to look too relieved. But you were. God, you were. Cyclone, well, he was rough, for lack of better words, Rooster had been kind, yes, but his presence was a lot. Intense. Distracting.
Phoenix, on the other hand, had that kind of practical, no-nonsense confidence you could actually lean on. She didn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen. She felt like structure.
“I’m Lieutenant Natasha Trace,” she said, extending her hand. “Call sign’s Phoenix.”
You shook her hand, your grip steadier than yesterday—though your palm was still a little clammy, and you were pretty sure she noticed.
“Y/N,” you said, then added with a tired smile, “Doctor. Uh, the nervous one.”
Phoenix huffed out a short laugh, a glint of something sharp but not unkind in her eyes. “I read your file.”
She stepped back, folding her arms as she leaned one hip against the edge of the sim console. Her stance was relaxed, confident, comfortable in her own skin in the way only someone who’d already proven themselves a hundred times could be.
“I also watched your sims,” she added, voice casual.
You winced, your smile turning into a grimace. “Oof. That bad?”
She tilted her head, as if considering how honest she wanted to be. Then gave a light shrug, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve seen worse. A lot worse.”
You let out a low hum, arms crossing loosely over your chest in mock thought. “That’s… reassuring.”
“Isn’t it?” she said, with just enough of a smirk to make you feel like she was on your side. “You hadn't passed out nor puked. You followed instructions until your brain short-circuited. Classic first-timer move.”
You laughed under your breath, surprised at how easily it came.
She finally looked at you then—steady, knowing. “We’re not here to make you into a pilot, Doc. We just need you ready for the mission. The rest? We’ll cover you.”
Something in your chest loosened at that.
Support. No condescension. No sharp edges. Just a quiet kind of strength you could lean against.
“Thanks,” you said. “Really.”
Phoenix nodded once. “Let’s get you in the seat.”
Inside the simulator, everything felt smaller than you remembered.
Not physically—just heavier. Like the air had thickened, like the walls had learned your fears from yesterday and decided to lean in a little closer.
You sat in the back seat again, the tablet already secured to its mount beside your right leg. Your fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, like it might bite. You could already feel your heartbeat in your palms.
“Straps secured?” Phoenix’s voice crackled through the headset. Her tone was crisp, even, the kind that didn’t rise to meet panic—it smothered it before it started.
You exhaled and gave a tight nod, forgetting she couldn’t see it. “Y-Yeah. Good to go.”
“All right,” she said. “We’re starting slow. Just basic turbulence patterns. No evasive maneuvers, no tricks. You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to breathe, and press a single button when I tell you.”
You nodded again, this time speaking aloud. “Sure.”
The sim hummed to life around you, and your body tensed automatically—like it remembered what came next, even if you swore it wouldn’t be that bad.
“Relax your shoulders,” Phoenix said, as if she felt the stiffness from her end. “You’re holding tension like you’re about to punch the air.”
The screen in front of you blinked to life. The sim took you airborne, but the motion was slow this time—steady, like a calm climb on a commercial flight.
You forced yourself to breathe out slowly and unclenched your jaw, trying to follow her lead. The shaking wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous day's simulated madness. No rolls. No sharp drops. Just steady pressure. Unnerving, but survivable.
Your eyes flicked to the screen.
The prompt glowed softly. Ethera. Standing by. Timer: 02:00
“This is just a systems check,” Phoenix said. “You don’t have to engage. Just keep your eyes on it. Notice the screen, your pulse, your breath. You’ve got time."
The pod dipped gently into a banking curve. You swayed, stomach flipping. "Keep breathing, Doc."
You gripped the edge of the seat, fingers twitching. “This still counts as breathing, right?”
“As long as you’re not blue in the face, yeah.”
You smiled—barely—but it helped.
The Ethera interface activated on the mounted tablet in front of you. The same prompt, The countdown. You glanced at it and your heart gave one uneasy thud.
“Don’t rush,” Phoenix reminded you, voice even. “One thing at a time. Don’t try to win. Just try to finish.”
You nodded again, reaching out slowly—deliberately—and tapped the screen to begin the simulated deployment sequence. The code began to unfold, and the sim didn’t break into loops or chaos. It kept going. And you were still breathing.
Your hand trembled slightly, but you stayed focused, eyes on the sequence as it loaded in steady green waves. The turbulence passed. The sim steadied.
“Ten seconds,” Phoenix said. “You’ve got it. Keep it locked.”
You kept your hand on the panel. You didn’t blink. The screen counted down.
3… 2… 1…
Deployment successful.
The soft chime of success echoed in your headset.
“Target received,” the system confirmed.
You blinked, then blinked again. “I… I got it?”
“You got it,” Phoenix said, the faintest edge of pride in her voice. “Nice and clean.”
You slumped back in the seat, suddenly aware of just how hard your heart had been working. Your eyes stung—not from panic this time, but from sheer relief.
“Doctor,” Phoenix said after a beat. “That was not bad.”
You couldn’t help the grin that broke across your face, exhausted but real.
And when the pod finally powered down with a gentle thunk, and the hatch hissed open, you realized you’d done the whole thing without white-knuckling the seat.
You’d finally made it through.
Phoenix was waiting for you, arms crossed, leaning one hip against the console like she’d known all along you’d handle it.
You stepped out, legs a still stiff, but your head was clear.
“Not bad,” she said, and this time her smile wasn’t just professional. It was small, but real. “No ejections. No nausea. No hysterics.”
You let out a dry laugh, breath catching on the edge of it. “Just mild existential dread.”
She shrugged, cool as ever. “That’s standard issue.”
Then smiled—really smiled—for the first time since this whole classified, terrifying, completely-out-of-your-depth mission had begun. The kind of smile that pulled dimples you hadn’t felt in days.
“Thanks,” you said again, quieter this time. Not just for the training, but for not making you feel like a burden.
Phoenix nodded once, like she already understood all of that.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “We need to move faster. Real evasive sequences. Simulated pressure. Maybe even some yelling.”
“Yours or mine?”
She smirked. “We’ll see who breaks first.”
You laughed again—easier this time—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were pretending.
By the time the week came to an end, you and Phoenix had become friends.
Not in the polite, nod-in-the-hallway kind of way—but the real kind. The kind built through shared silence in the simulator bay, through low chuckles after a successful run, through Phoenix’s calm voice in your headset, cutting through the static and the fear. She never coddled you. Never sugarcoated anything but she never made you feel less, either.
There were moments where fear absolutely took over—where your breath hitched too high in your chest or your fingers trembled too much to find the prompt in time and there were other moments, rarer but growing, where you managed. Where you pressed the button, where you kept your head above water.
Phoenix never made a spectacle of either.
When you panicked, she talked you down, when you succeeded, she just clapped you on the shoulder, tossed you a bottle of water, and said, “Told you. You’re getting it.”
And somehow, that meant more than any standing ovation ever could.
By Friday evening, you had survived four more simulations, logged two successful Ethera deployments, and stopped referring to the ejection lever as “that red death stick.”
Progress.
“You coming to the Hard Deck tonight?” Phoenix said casually, already slinging her duffel over one shoulder as you both headed toward the lockers.
You blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”
She paused mid-step, turning just enough to glance back at you with that crooked grin she reserved for moments like this—half dare, half invitation.
“The Hard Deck,” she repeated, now walking backward toward the hangar doors. “Bar. Pool tables. Bad decisions. You in?”
You stared for a beat too long, processing.
The Hard Deck.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. You’d heard about the place in passing—mostly through muttered comments and laughing threats. It had sounded like a local haunt. Loud. Messy. Full of people who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t care that you didn’t.
“Wait, is that—like, is that a thing?” you asked, trailing after her. “Do people… actually go?”
Phoenix raised an eyebrow like she wasn’t sure if you were messing with her. “Only the ones worth talking to.”
You hesitated.
She paused at the doorway and tossed the final hook. “You’ve survived a week of sims, didn’t puke on anyone, and haven’t cried once. That makes you officially less pathetic than half the new guys. You’ve earned a drink... So?
Your brain, naturally, tried to stall. A bar? With actual people? And more pilots? But your mouth moved faster.
“Uh—yeah, sure,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before your usual social panic could hit. “I could go for a drink.”
Phoenix gave a little nod, like she’d already known your answer. Like this was the inevitable next step in whatever strange, reluctant journey you’d found yourself on.
Then she jerked her chin toward the exit, already on the move.
You hesitated. “What now?”
She didn’t stop walking.
“You go back to wherever you’ve been hiding, put on something that doesn’t scream ‘high-stress lab goblin,’ and I’ll swing by in an hour.”
You blinked. “That specific, huh?”
Phoenix half-turned, walking backward again like she had a personal vendetta against stationary conversations. “It’s a bar, not a Senate hearing. No briefing, no simulations, no threat of fiery death. Just drinks. Loud music. Maybe pool. Probably bad flirting.”
And with that, she was gone—leaving you standing in the middle of the hangar, sweaty, slightly stunned, and suddenly very aware that you owned exactly one outfit that wasn’t issued or work-adjacent.
Oh no. Now you actually had to get ready.
A/N:
Heyyyyy, OMG the support for this story is wild, thank you all so so muchhh!! I honestly did not think it would get this much attention, my first draft was actually a Charlie's Angel reader lol, but I'm so happy you all enjoy this version. I did try to make it as realistic as possible, after all reader does not like to fly I can only imagine being put in her position, so she being frozen out of fear and not completing the mission feels real, at least to me.
And my apologies it took me so long to put it out. Part III is already in the works, so I think it will be out soon.
Thank you all so so much for the support and the comments and reblogs, really.
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THE FIRST, FIRST LOVE COMPLEX • S.REID • PT2



SUMMARY: after revealing the shocking truth of Spencer Reid’s first, first love, the team does as the unsub instructs, retracing his steps all the way to Las Vegas.
PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer
tags: reader is a cutie pie, reader wears sun dresses and bikinis, reader is flirty bombshell, mentions of eating disorder, mentions of death, stalking, etc
a/n: i finally wrote part two please don’t hurt me
w/c: 4.8K
PT1
TAGLIST: @miyah-kaulitz @celestial-dome @lqu91s @ningeology @anthropsych @kore-of-the-underworld (sorry if I couldn’t tag u angels🥹💋)

The BAU’s jet touched down in New York just past noon, the sky a dull, unbroken sheet of grey. Heavy clouds clung to the tips of the city’s steel giants, muting the sunlight and casting a somber haze over the skyline. The low hum of the engines faded, but Spencer’s mind continued to race — fast and relentless — like a needle skipping on a broken record.
He sat rigid in his seat, shoulders tight and posture stiff. While the others moved with calm efficiency, gathering their bags and briefing one another quietly, Spencer remained frozen. His fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against his knee, each tap betraying the nervous energy buzzing beneath his skin.
She’s out there somewhere.
The thought looped through his mind like a mantra — or a curse. Every worst-case scenario unraveled in his head, each one more suffocating than the last. His last memory of you played over and over, taunting him. Your bright smile had been framed by golden sunlight, hair tousled by a lazy breeze as you lounged on a park bench with a book balanced in your lap. He remembered the way you’d tucked your hair behind your ear without looking up, too engrossed in the pages to notice him watching.
She’s safe like this, he had thought at the time. Happy. Warm. Free.
But now? Now you were somewhere in the heart of a city too vast, too unpredictable — a place that swallowed people whole. And Spencer had no idea where you were or what the unsub’s next move would be. That uncertainty clawed at him, tightening his chest until breathing felt like a conscious effort.
“Reid.”
Hotch’s voice cut through the spiral of thoughts — calm yet commanding. Spencer blinked, suddenly aware that the others were standing near the exit, waiting for him.
“JJ and I will handle this,” Hotch said firmly. “You stay here and go through the evidence again.”
“I should be there,” Spencer shot back, his voice too sharp, too fast. His breath hitched. “If he contacts her, if there’s a pattern I missed—”
“You’re too close to this,” Hotch interrupted, tone steady but unyielding. “We need her calm when we find her, not terrified because you’re pacing like you are now.”
Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. Hotch was right — Spencer knew that — yet the logic did nothing to quiet the gnawing panic threatening to consume him. His mind refused to slow down, cycling through probabilities and variables, imagining scenarios he couldn’t control.
“We’ll bring her back safe,” JJ added softly. Her hand squeezed his arm — brief, warm, and grounding. “I promise.”
Spencer swallowed hard and nodded, but the tension coiling in his chest refused to loosen. As Hotch and JJ disembarked, Spencer stayed behind, staring blankly at the clutter of files spread across the table.
His gaze fell to the photograph at the top of the stack — your face, mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with warmth. The memory of that moment blurred with his anxiety, twisting the image in his mind. What if this unsub had already—
No.
Spencer inhaled deeply, shakily, and forced himself to refocus. He grabbed a pen, determined to find something — anything — that could lead them to you before it was too late.
The law firm’s reception area was sleek and imposing — marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, towering glass walls that seemed to stretch endlessly upward, and a front desk staffed by a sharp-looking receptionist whose tailored blazer was as precise as her clipped tone. She barely flicked her gaze up when Hotch and JJ approached.
“We’re here to see Y/N L/N,” Hotch said firmly, flashing his badge with practiced ease.
The receptionist’s eyes barely lifted from her computer screen. “She’s assisting Mr. Connelly in a meeting,” she replied flatly. “I can leave her a message.”
“It’s urgent,” JJ pressed, her voice calm yet underscored with quiet insistence. “It’s a matter of her safety.”
The receptionist’s cool façade faltered, her gaze flicking from JJ to Hotch and back again. For a moment, she hesitated, clearly debating whether to push back or comply. Finally, her professional demeanor gave way to uncertainty. “I… let me get her.”
Moments later, you appeared from the hallway — heels clicking crisply on the marble, posture sharp and poised. A sleek blazer framed your figure, lending you an air of effortless confidence. Yet despite your composed appearance, warmth still lingered in your eyes — a warmth that flickered brighter the moment you recognized JJ. She was Spencer’s co worker, the one you were convinced he would be with once you were gone.
“JJ?” you greeted, surprise softening your features. “What are you doing here?”
JJ’s smile was brief, weighed down by something heavier. “Can we talk somewhere private?”
The concern in her voice dimmed your initial excitement, and you nodded, gesturing for them to follow you into a quiet office down the hall. The room was simple — modern furnishings, a tidy desk, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. As soon as the door clicked shut, JJ’s warm expression shifted to something more serious.
“We believe someone’s been following you,” Hotch said, his voice low and firm. “We have reason to believe your life is in danger.”
Your smile faltered, confusion knitting your brows. “What? Why?”
“We think it’s connected to Spencer,” JJ added gently. “He didn’t want to scare you, but… we need to get you somewhere safe.”
“Spencer?” His name felt foreign on your tongue — distant yet familiar all at once. Your expression softened for a brief moment before unease crept in. “I haven’t seen him in… God, years.” You paused, your mind scrambling to piece things together. “Wait… is this about those weird letters I’ve been getting?”
JJ’s gaze sharpened. “Letters?”
You nodded, moving to your desk and retrieving your purse. “I thought they were just from some weird admirer, but… yeah. They’d show up in my mailbox — poems, quotes about angels and music. It was sweet at first, but then they started mentioning things about my past.” Your fingers drifted to the delicate chain around your neck, absently toying with the pendant — a nervous habit you hadn’t shaken. “I figured it was just someone from high school who remembered me.”
Hotch’s expression darkened. He exchanged a grim look with JJ, and the silent weight of their concern settled over you like a cold shadow.
“Those letters are likely from the person targeting you,” Hotch said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
You blinked, the air suddenly feeling too thin. “This has something to do with Spencer?”
“We believe the unsub’s fixation started with him,” JJ explained carefully. “But somewhere along the way, they became obsessed with you.���
The weight of her words pressed heavily on your chest. Memories of Spencer stirred — late-night conversations whispered across shared coffees, the warmth of his hand on yours when he thought no one was looking, the way his gaze softened when you laughed. He had always been cautious with you — overly protective in a way you didn’t fully understand at the time.
Maybe now you did.
“I need to get my things,” you said quietly, your voice thinner than you intended. You reached for your purse, suddenly aware of how exposed you felt — the glass walls, the polished floors, the endless corridors all seemed too open, too vulnerable.
“We’ll walk you out,” Hotch said firmly, his stance shifting slightly as if preparing for the worst.
JJ offered you a small smile — one meant to reassure — but there was no hiding the tension that hung in the air.
The moment you stepped back into the reception area, the city’s distant noise seemed louder — sirens wailing faintly in the background, muffled conversations humming just outside the glass walls. As you walked between Hotch and JJ, their presence was comforting yet unsettling — a constant reminder that someone, somewhere, was watching.
And you had no idea what they were planning next.
Spencer barely looked up when Hotch and JJ returned to the station with you. He was pacing near Garcia’s workstation, phone in hand, scrolling through messages for any missed calls. His fingers trembled slightly against the device, his mind spinning in frantic loops.
When he finally noticed you walking in, relief flooded his face — but the tension in his body didn’t ease. His anxiety kept him rooted in place, shoulders rigid and breath uneven.
“Spencer…” Your voice was soft, almost hesitant, yet it broke through the buzzing noise in his head.
“You’re okay,” he breathed, his voice tight. “Thank God.”
You crossed the room quietly, your steps measured. Your hand found his arm — gentle, barely a touch — yet steady enough to pull him from his spiral.
“I didn’t know what was happening,” you said softly, your fingers curling slightly against his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer said, his eyes flicking between yours like he was trying to memorize your face all over again. “I should’ve told you sooner — I should’ve kept in touch. I—”
“You’re here now,” you interrupted quietly, your voice steady but tender. “That’s enough.”
Before Spencer could say more, Penelope’s voice broke the moment.
“Spence… you need to see this.”
Her fingers hovered above her keyboard, her usual brightness dimmed beneath a layer of unease. The screen displayed a new email — subject line: “For My Angel.”
With shaky hands, Spencer clicked the message open.
The letter was written in the same looping script as the others:
She saved my life once, your angel did.
Her music was like light — soft and warm — and she never knew I was listening.
She’s everything pure in this world, and you’re tainting her.
I’ll take her away, away from you, and give her the peace she deserves.
She won’t need to suffer anymore.
Attached were two video files. Spencer clicked the first.The screen filled with a sunlit beach — the camera shaky and handheld. You stood near the water’s edge, the breeze teasing strands of your hair loose from their pins. The fabric of your bikini clung to you as you laughed, warm and carefree, before playfully splashing Spencer.
“I’m serious!” Spencer’s voice laughed from behind the camera. “You’re gonna get cold.”
“The water is nice, come on!,” you teased, your smile softer than your words. The sound of your voice — light and fond — was enough to hollow out Spencer’s chest.
The video cut off.
The second file played — a dimly lit restaurant this time. You sat across from Spencer, your fingers slowly tracing the rim of your cocktail glass. Your gaze flicked downward as you stirred the straw absentmindedly, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmured without lifting your eyes.“Like what?” Spencer’s voice countered.
“Like you’re profiling me,” you said quietly, finally glancing up.
“I can’t help it,” Spencer’s voice returned, quiet and certain. The look on his face — the love in his eyes — was undeniable.
The video ended.
“That’s enough,” Spencer muttered, stepping back from the screen. His chest felt painfully tight, like he couldn’t draw in a full breath.
“Why would they send this?” you asked softly. Your voice didn’t tremble — it barely rose above a whisper — but the unease was clear in your eyes.
“He’s fixated,” JJ said carefully. “Not just on Spencer — on you. He’s convinced that somehow… you saved him.”
“Saved him?” you repeated, your brows knitting together.
“In high school,” Spencer murmured, piecing it together. “The music, the kindness — you must’ve done something that he clung to.”
You lowered your gaze to your hands, your fingers loosely fidgeting with the chain of your necklace. “I used to play my flute in the park,” you said quietly. “There was this boy… I didn’t know his name, but he was always sitting alone. I played because… I don’t know, I thought maybe it’d help.”
“That’s it,” Hotch said grimly. “You gave him something to hold onto.”
“And now,” JJ added, “he thinks he’s saving you in return.”
For a long moment, you were silent — your fingers still absently twisting the necklace chain.
“We need to find him before he gets that chance,” Spencer said firmly. His voice was low, but the urgency behind it was unmistakable.
You gave a small nod, your fingers tightening around the delicate chain. The air in the room felt heavier than before — thick with unspoken fear — but when Spencer’s hand found yours, you let him hold on.
Quietly, you let yourself believe that somehow, despite everything, you’d be safe.
The morning air was cold — the kind that clung to your skin and sank into your bones — and it carried with it a weight that pressed heavily on Spencer’s chest. He stood beside Hotch and JJ, his fingers twitching restlessly against his side, the unease winding tighter with every breath.
The plan had seemed secure — two officers stationed with you, experienced and reliable. Spencer had reviewed their backgrounds twice, grilling Hotch on their credentials as if he could force some kind of guarantee. But it hadn’t been enough to quiet the gnawing panic in his chest.
He’d argued. Begged, even.
“She should stay here,” Spencer had insisted, voice rising despite himself. “Or— or somewhere safer. A hotel, one with security, or maybe—”
“I just want to go home,” you’d interrupted, your voice quiet but unwavering. “I can’t breathe in here. I need to feel normal again.”
Spencer’s protests had faltered. He’d hated that he understood.
He knew that suffocating feeling — that desperate need to reclaim some semblance of control after fear had robbed you of it. He knew what it felt like to want your space back, to convince yourself that normalcy could be enough to keep you safe.
So he’d let you go — but not without hesitation.
He remembered standing by the station doors, fingers clenched at his sides, feeling like there was something more he should’ve said — something that might’ve changed your mind. When you turned back for him, your gaze softened, and suddenly he couldn’t hold himself back.
He’d closed the distance in an instant, arms wrapping tightly around you. His fingers curled into the fabric of your coat like he could anchor you there with him.
“Please be safe,” he whispered into your hair. His voice had wavered, barely audible even to himself.
“You’ll see me tomorrow,” you promised, voice soft yet certain. “Bright and early.”
But Spencer had held on just a little longer, as if he knew that promise might be one you wouldn’t get the chance to keep.
The apartment felt foreign — like someone else’s home disguised in your own familiar comforts. The faint scent of lavender still clung to the air, and the pastel throw blankets you’d folded just the night before lay neatly across the armchair. Yet none of it felt real. It was like you were standing in a stage set, where everything looked familiar but nothing felt safe.
You’d brewed a cup of tea — something warm and calming — but your fingers barely touched the mug. It sat untouched on the counter, steam curling lazily upward.
Detective Alvarez and Officer Greene moved with quiet diligence, checking the locks for the fifth time that morning. Their presence should have been reassuring, but instead, it only deepened the unease gnawing at your chest.
“We’ve got this,” Alvarez said, flashing you a confident smile. “No one’s getting in.”
You tried to smile back, but it felt thin, forced. The words didn’t stick.
Your gaze kept drifting to the windows. Each shadow seemed to stretch too far, each silhouette in the corner of your eye felt like someone lurking just out of sight.
You turned on the TV, letting the dull hum of the morning news fill the silence. The voices blurred together — static, muffled — but you kept the volume high, hoping to drown out the noise in your head.
Then there was a knock at the door.
“Miss L/N?” Greene’s voice called. “It’s me.”
You frowned, setting your tea down. “Didn’t you just check in?”
“Just want to update you,” he answered. “Everything’s clear outside.”
Something felt off — the words too casual, too light. You hesitated, fingers curling around the door handle. Still, you turned the lock and opened the door just a crack — enough to see Greene’s face.
He smiled, but something was wrong. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes — too tight, too forced.
And then you saw it — the smear of blood just beneath his collar.
Your breath caught.
Before you could react, he shoved the door open. The impact sent you sprawling backward, your shoulder striking the wall and your head slamming against the sharp corner of your bookshelf.
“W-What…?” Your voice barely broke the air, slurred and thin as dizziness clouded your vision. The room spun, shadows warping and shifting.
The man standing above you wasn’t Greene. His uniform hung loose on his frame, and the dark glint in his eyes twisted your stomach with dread.
“Im sorry it had to be this way,” he murmured, voice low and venomous.
The street was a blur of flashing lights and frantic voices when the BAU arrived. Spencer shoved past the officers crowding the sidewalk, ignoring the calls for him to slow down. His breath hitched when he reached the threshold of the building.
Two bodies.
Detective Alvarez lay crumpled in the stairwell, his chest dark with blood. Officer Greene’s body was slumped near the front door — his badge still clutched tightly in his hand. Blood smeared the floor like a cruel map of what had unfolded, but none of it mattered.
You weren’t there.
“She’s gone,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely holding together. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. “He took her…”
“We’ll find her,” Hotch said firmly, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.
“He has her right now!” Spencer snapped, his voice breaking as he turned sharply toward him. His breath stuttered again — this time more ragged, more desperate. “Right now…”
“Spence…” JJ’s voice was softer as she approached. “We found something inside.”
Spencer barely heard her. His gaze remained fixed on the bloodstains, the smeared footprints leading away from the doorway. His mind kept looping back to the last thing you’d said to him.
“You’ll see me tomorrow. Bright and early.”
But tomorrow had arrived — and you were nowhere to be found.
The living room was a wreck — papers strewn across the floor, cushions gutted and tossed aside, the coffee table shoved halfway across the room. The scent of overturned candles and stale air clung to the space. Yet none of it mattered — not the mess, not the chaos.
What stole Spencer’s breath was the envelope on the coffee table.
His name was scrawled across the front in jagged, uneven letters — the ink pressed so hard into the paper it had nearly torn through. His fingers trembled as he reached for it, dread coiling tightly in his chest.
“Spence…” JJ’s voice was soft, but it barely registered.
With shaky hands, he tore the envelope open. The paper inside was rough beneath his fingertips — thin and cheap, like something torn from a notebook.
“I trusted you to keep her safe. How could you let her suffer like this?
She’s perfect — but she’s broken.
You never even noticed. While you smiled and held her hand, she was starving herself just to stay small enough for you to love her.
She’s an angel… my angel.
I’ll fix her now. I’ll save her from you.”
Spencer’s breath faltered, his fingers tightening around the paper until it crumpled in his grip. His vision blurred as the words seared themselves into his mind.
“What… what does he mean?” Spencer rasped, his voice thin and uneven.
JJ stepped closer, her expression carefully composed yet unmistakably concerned. “Spencer… did she ever mention struggling with food?”
“Yes.” His voice broke on the word. “She’s… she’s always smiling, always full of life…she got better…”
But even as the words left his mouth, memories began to surface — disjointed and sharp.
The quiet way you’d push food around your plate, always insisting you weren’t that hungry.
The faint tremor in your fingers when you were tired — or when you thought no one was looking.
The way your dresses sometimes seemed a little too loose, like they didn’t quite fit the way they once had.
Moments he’d brushed off as nothing — little things that felt insignificant at the time but now twisted painfully in his mind.
You were hurting… and he hadn’t seen it.
“Oh God…” Spencer’s breath hitched, and his knees buckled. He sank onto the edge of the couch, the crumpled letter still clenched in his fist. “I didn’t see it.” His voice broke, raw and strained.
“It’s not your fault,” Hotch said firmly, stepping into his line of sight. “This unsub is projecting his own obsession — twisting it to blame you.”
“No,” Spencer choked out, shaking his head. His voice faltered, barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve known… I should’ve noticed.”
JJ knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his arm. “Spence… you love her. That’s what matters right now.”
But Spencer barely heard her. His mind spiraled, looping back to the last time he’d seen you — the softness in your smile when you’d promised him “bright and early.”
He thought about the way you’d hugged him a little longer than usual — how fragile you’d felt in his arms.
You needed him… and he hadn’t seen it.
“I can’t lose her,” Spencer whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t…”
“We’re going to find her,” Hotch said firmly. “But we need you with us — thinking clearly.”
Spencer forced a shaky breath and wiped a trembling hand across his face. He clung to the only thing that mattered now — the promise he silently made to himself as he stared at the crumpled letter in his hand.
He would find you.
He wouldn’t fail you again.
The room was silent except for the furious rhythm of Garcia’s fingers flying across her keyboard. Spencer hovered beside her, too restless to sit. His breath came in shallow bursts, his mind cycling through worst-case scenarios on a relentless loop.
“Come on…” Garcia muttered. “Come on, you sick freak… give me something…”
The seconds dragged painfully on — each one tightening the coil of panic in Spencer’s chest.
Then — ping.
“Got him!” Garcia cried. “A security camera caught him heading toward an abandoned warehouse five miles outside the city.”
Hotch was already barking orders, agents scrambling for their gear. Spencer didn’t wait — he was out the door, heart racing.
The warehouse reeked of mold and rust, the air heavy with dust that clung to Spencer’s throat. The floorboards groaned beneath his steps, each creak splintering the silence. His pulse pounded in his ears — too loud, too fast.
Then he heard it.
A faint sound — soft, stifled sobs.
His chest tightened.
“Y/N…”
He followed the sound, moving faster now. His heart nearly stopped when he saw you — slumped against a metal pole, wrists raw and bruised from the rope that bit into your skin. Your hair clung to your face, damp with sweat, and your breathing was shallow.
“Y/N…” Spencer’s voice broke on your name.
Your head lifted weakly. “Spence…”
Before he could reach you, a figure emerged from the shadows.
The unsub.
He was wiry, face gaunt and eyes wild. The knife in his hand gleamed under the dim light.
“You didn’t deserve her,” the man spat, his voice shaking with rage. His glare locked onto Spencer, burning with venom. “You let her suffer, and you didn’t even notice.”
“Please…” Spencer raised his hands, voice tight but steady. “You don’t have to hurt her.”
“I would never! She’s not safe with you,” the man snapped. “She’s too kind — too good — and you didn’t even see how much she was hurting.” His voice wavered. “But I did.”
Spencer’s heart twisted painfully. “I know you believe that,” he said carefully. “But you’re not helping her this way.”
“I can fix her!” the man barked, his hand tightening around the blade.
“By starving her?” Spencer’s voice rose, breaking with emotion. “By scaring her like this?”
The unsub flinched as if Spencer’s words had struck him. His grip faltered, the knife dipping slightly.
“I wouldn’t starve her! I- I’m not like you.” The unsub held his head with his free hand, waving the knife about. It went quiet for a moment.
Then your voice broke the silence.
“Hey…”
Both men froze as you lifted your head. Your voice was soft — weak yet unwavering.
“Hey,” you tried again, a little stronger this time — gentle, soothing, like you were speaking to a frightened child.
The unsub’s gaze flicked to you. His face twisted with confusion. “You… you don’t have to be scared,” he stammered. “I’m saving you.”
“I know,” you said quietly. “I know you think you are.”
Spencer’s breath caught. He wanted to move — to reach you — but he knew better than to push.
“I remember you,” you said, your voice steady. “From high school… you used to sit on the far bench by the fountain.”
The unsub blinked rapidly. “You remember?”
“Of course I do,” you said with a faint smile. “I used to play my flute there… and you’d always listen.”
“You… you played beautifully,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You don’t know what that meant to me. I was… I was going to kill myself that day. But then I heard you playing, and I thought… maybe there’s still something good in the world. You were that something.”
Tears pricked your eyes. “I’m so glad you didn’t,” you said softly. “You deserved to find peace… to heal. But this isn’t the way.”
The knife wavered in his hand.
“I know you think I’m broken,” you continued gently. “But I promise… I’m okay now. I’m trying to be.”
The unsub shook his head fiercely. “No, no… you’re not okay. I saw you — barely eating, wasting away. He let you hurt yourself.” His eyes flicked back to Spencer, sharp with blame.
“I know,” you said carefully. “But that wasn’t his fault.”
Spencer’s breath hitched.
“I was sick,” you explained gently. “The weight loss… it wasn’t my eating disorder. It was my medication.” Your gaze shifted to Spencer, soft and unwavering. “He’s always been there for me. And right now… I need him.”
The unsub’s face crumbled. His fingers slackened around the knife.
“You’ve been carrying this pain for so long,” you said softly. “But you don’t have to anymore. Let me help you now, the way you once helped me.”
The blade clattered to the floor.
“I just wanted to protect you,” the man whispered brokenly.
“I know,” you murmured, eyes kind. “But it’s over now. You protected me.”
The team rushed in, Morgan and Hotch seizing the unsub before he could react. The man barely resisted — his gaze stayed locked on you, his expression crumpling as tears streaked down his face.
“You saved me,” he mumbled as they dragged him away. “You saved me back then… and you saved me now…”
“And you saved me,” you responded.
Later, after you’d been checked over by paramedics, you found Spencer sitting quietly outside the ambulance. His head hung low, wrists encircled by handcuffs — protocol after crossing into the scene without waiting for backup. His fingers twisted anxiously, his breathing uneven.
“Hey…”
Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. When he looked up and saw you standing there — bruised but smiling — his chest caved with relief.
“You’re okay…” His voice broke, and he blinked rapidly.
“I’m okay,” you promised. “Thanks to you.”
“I… I should’ve known,” Spencer stammered. “About the medication… about everything. He was right — I didn’t see it.”
“You couldn’t have,” you soothed. “But you’ve always been there when it mattered.”
Spencer swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”
“You don’t have to think about that.” Gently, you reached for his hand, your fingers threading through his.
Spencer exhaled shakily, eyes flicking downward.
“Do you remember…” You paused, smiling softly. “When I used to play for you?”
His gaze lifted, brow furrowing slightly.
“I’d still play for you someday,” you offered. “If you want.”
Spencer let out a breath — a faint, tired laugh — and nodded.
“I’d like that.”
#criminal minds#spencer reid#x reader#spencer reid x reader#fanfic#criminal minds fluff#cm#fluff#request#criminal minds angst
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Through thin walls

In which Spencer finds solace in the sounds of his new neighbor.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Genre: smut (18+) Content warnings: perv!spence, mutual masturbation Word count: 1,7k A/n: i wanted to write a smut with a more sensual, almost poetic approach?? let me know what you think of it bc i truly don’t know how to feel about it… also tell me if you'd be interested in a part two where they would meet!
Spencer wasn’t one to find much solace in sleep.
There was a time where it offered him comfort. A refuge where he could momentarily let go of his worries. But that was before his dreams started to haunt him. He was often praised for his eidetic memory, but what people failed to consider was that it also meant remembering your worst memories in precise, vivid detail.
Of course Spencer was aware of how crucial sleep was, how sleep deprivation could wear a person down to the point of breaking them. But when sleep was the very thing that tore at him, what good was it? He did try to rest—clinging to the rare moments on the jet, where the hum of the engines and the presence of the team offered a shield against the nightmares that awaited him. But in the stillness of his own bed, the darkness pressed in, suffocating him until sleep became a burden he couldn’t bear.
When Spencer prepared for another attempt at sleep, he braced himself for the familiar routine: tossing and turning in tangled sheets, silently reciting The Parliament of Fowls in a desperate effort to reclaim the peace it once gave him—back when his mother would read it to him as a child. He’d pace to the kitchen for a warm glass of milk, anything to calm his restless mind, only for the alarm to blare the moment his head hit the pillow.
What he didn’t expect, though, was to hear a sound from the other side of the wall.
Soft at first, like it was testing the air—a breath, a hum, something faint but undeniably there. Spencer sat up against the headboard, his face turned toward the shared wall. The walls in his apartment were thin, but he hadn’t heard anything from next door in ages, not since his neighbor had moved out.
He waited patiently, listening, and then—there it was again. A faint gasp followed by a low moan. Spencer’s breath hitched as he made out that the sound came from a woman. He tensed, his mind immediately jumping to conclusions. Was she hurt? His pulse quickened at the thought. Then a deeper moan sounded, accompanied by a soft, shaky exhale.
He pressed his ear closer to the wall, straining to make out the sounds. A faint shuffle of movement reached him next, then the sound of a distant buzzing. Was someone else with her? His thoughts raced as he waited, not sure whether to jump to action.
The sounds didn’t stop. In fact, they seemed to intensify, morphing into a rhythmic string of moans, sounding almost…sensual.
Spencer sat frozen as the realization hit him. His stomach fluttered, a flush creeping up his neck and across his face as he struggled to grasp what was happening. He should turn away, should stop listening, but the sounds—her sounds—kept pulling him in. Her soft whimpers seemed to draw out something deep inside of him, an unfamiliar curiosity.
Another moan sounded, higher pitched, followed by a low, drawn-out whine that made Spencer flinch. His eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to stop the flood of thoughts from rushing in, but it felt like his body was magnetized to the sound. There was nothing but that—the rasp of her breath, the unmistakable signs of pleasure seeping through the thin wall.
The sound of buzzing grew louder, and when a curse left the lips of the women next door, Spencer couldn’t help but let a deep groan escape from his throat. He quickly bit down on his lower lip, heart pounding in his chest. The sounds from the other side of the wall abruptly stopped, and for a moment, the silence was deafening. He held his breath, muscles tensed, every nerve on edge, waiting for what might come next. It felt like an eternity before the buzzing started again—this time softer, but still unmistakable. Spencer let out a long, shaky exhale, the weight in his chest lifting slightly.
Spencer was a firm believer of the mind having control over the body. He’s seen enough cases where people’s minds compelled them to commit horrific acts they wouldn’t have otherwise. In Spencer’s case he’d learned to ignore the nudges of his body, quickly pushing his desires aside as a mere biological function he shouldn’t linger on for too long. Maybe it was his lack of sleep, or the desperation for a change of routine—because this time around his body was getting the best of him.
The tightness in his pants grew simultaneously with the pretty sounds next door. His hand clenched around the fabric of his sheets, but it didn’t stop the tension building inside of him.
He tried to shift his focus back to something logical. Distracting himself by thinking back on his chemistry thesis on Dipole-Dipole forces, how simple the alignment of the polar molecules sounded, but how complex it actually is—how the bond isn’t as intense as with ions, but something that builds steadily over time, almost imperceptibly at first, until it becomes undeniable.
As his mind went on thinking about the invisible, magnetic pull between the opposing charges, he couldn’t help but notice the similarities with the situation he was in. She, like a molecule with her own electric field, creating a captivating attraction, slowly drawing him in with every sweet sound that escaped her lips. He could only wonder what would happen the moment they would meet—if their charged particles aligned—how it could release something greater than either of them could anticipate.
He imagined the woman next door. He pictured her as a shadow first—a soft silhouette just beyond his reach, blurred by the apartment wall. But in his thoughts, the edges of her figure sharpened.
He wondered if she was touching herself, if her hands were trailing along her body in the same way he traced her in his mind. He wondered what her skin would feel like under his fingertips. Would it be soft, the kind that invited touch? Or would the gentle curve of her shoulders be warmer, more textured and defined?
His hand moved without permission, fingers tracing his own jaw, his eyes fluttering close. His fingers brushed against his neck, leaving a trace of goosebumps in its wake. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to touch her there, to feel the pulse beneath her skin.
Another moan slipped through the wall, soft and pleading. Would she react the same way if I touched her? The thought sent a jolt of heat through him. Spencer’s hand twitched as he unbuttoned the buttons of his shirt, his hand gliding over his bare chest.
Each breath, each noise from her, felt like a thread pulling him closer to the edge, closer to her. His body moved on his own accord. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, and he’s hit with the sensation of warmth and need.
He wondered if she knew how beautiful she sounded. If she was even aware of how loud she was. Or maybe she simply didn’t care. Maybe she liked how much she affected him with her whimpers and gasps.
He imagined the way her body would move, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the delicate arch of her back as she gave herself over to the sensation. He could almost feel it—like a phantom touch—her skin against his, the way she would shudder beneath him, lost in the same heat he was drowning in now.
His hand drifted lower, unable to stop. He pictured pressing her body into the sheets, hearing her moan against his ear as he would lean in and hide his face into the crook of her neck. He wondered whether she would surrender herself to the pleasure or try gaining more by wrapping her legs around him, pulling him closer. Whether she would like him to take it slow, savoring every touch, or if she would want him to be rough, to make her feel an ecstasy she hasn’t experienced before.
Another sharp gasp came from the other side of the wall. Spencer stifled a groan as his hand moved more urgently, guided by his growing pleasure. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Fully consumed by the thought of her—so close, yet still so out of reach.
Spencer wasn’t sure where his sounds began and where hers ended. He was swallowed by the overwhelming sensation, his mind too hazy to make out the border between reality and his imagination. His grip on himself tightened, spurred on by her sounds that seemed to match his own rhythm.
She had slipped so deeply into his mind that he could feel her, in every breath, in every shiver of his skin. Spencer felt it in his chest, the way his breath quickened, the way the pressure built. She had become more than just the sounds next door, more than a figment of his imagination. She had become a need. And in this moment, he had no choice but to follow where it led.
Her moans became more frequent. Spencer’s body responded instantly. His hand moved faster, drawn by the pulse of her release, feeling the way it thrummed through him as though they were one.
He could almost see her—her legs writhing, her eyes closed, her lips parted in that delicate, breathless moan. His mind painted the picture so clearly, it felt as though she were right in front of him.
Her release ignited his, a wave of heat rolled through him, pulling him under. His breath caught, his body shaking as he followed her, their climaxes crashing together—separate, yet so intimately tied.
Spencer lay still. His once frantic heartbeat slowed down. Still, his mind buzzed with the aftershocks of what had just happened. He could still hear her lingering moans in his mind, like a melody he couldn’t shake.
The air in the room felt lighter, less suffocating, the weight of longing finally lifted from his chest. The exhaustion that pressed down on him was different from the nights before. It wasn’t the weariness of a restless mind, of memories from the past gnawing at him. It was the deep, almost tender exhaustion that followed from his release.
Tonight, there were no nightmares waiting at the edge of his consciousness. Just quiet. Just calm. Just her.
PART TWO
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x oc#spencer reid smut#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid criminal minds#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid imagine#dr spencer reid#spencer reid fic#criminal minds x you#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds smut#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds imagine#spencer reid
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the price to pay when you’re a passenger princess.
You knew that there had to be a catch when Bakugou said he’d pick you up after your 12-hour shift at the hospital. But the thing was, you were too exhausted to dwell on the thought.
Or so you thought.
“You look dead on your feet,” he commented as he opened the door for you.
“Thanks for the compliment,” you replied dryly, tossing your bag into the backseat. “And they say chivalry is dead.”
The sleek, jet-black Porsche 911 Turbo S roared through the empty streets like a predator on the hunt, the low rumble of the engine vibrating through your very soul. Bakugou, of course, looked completely at ease, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift, a calm expression seen on his face.
You’ve come to understand that your husband was relatively calm when not provoked.
“Katsuki,” you started as the car picked up speed, “you do realize this is still a hospital zone, right? Maybe don’t speed like you’re in a Fast and Furious movie.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You literally just did.”
“Relax,” he drawled, shifting gears with precision. “You know I’ve got this.”
You, on the other hand, were internally reciting every safety procedure you could think of in case of an unfortunate circumstance to come.
“Should I call my assistant to make an appointment in advance?”
Bakugou snorts. “What? Don’t trust me?”
“Oh, I trust you. It’s the laws of physics I don’t trust,” you muttered under your breath, earning a low chuckle from him.
The worst part? There was barely any traffic this late at night, which only encouraged Bakugou to push the limits of what his new Porsche could do. You glanced at the speedometer and instantly regretted it.
“Katsuki, I swear to God—”
“What? It’s not like I’m breaking the speed limit,” he said with mock innocence, though the mischievous glint in his eyes told you he knew exactly what he was doing.
The Prefectural Government’s Public Safety Commissions should really revoke his license one of these days. Or you might not live to see the next one.
“By less than two!”
You leaned your head back against the seat, staring at the darkened city skyline as it blurred past you. You were exhausted from your shift, your feet aching, bone tired, but all of that was being drowned out by the overwhelming sensation of your life flashing before your very eyes.
You double-checked your seatbelt again. It’s never too late to actually be safe.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said without taking his eyes off the road.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to yell at me for being too hot and good at everything.”
“Wow? The audacity of my husband making such a bold claim,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes at him. “Have I fed your ego too much that you’re about to float away like a hot-air balloon?”
“Didn’t deny my claim.” He got you there.
You couldn’t argue with that.
“Just so you know,” you muttered, clutching the grab handle even tighter as he effortlessly weaved between two cars, “if I die tonight, I’m haunting you. And I’ll make sure to mess with you when you’re trying to sleep.”
“Good,” he said with a grin, finally glancing your way. “At least then you’d be with me all the time, huh?”
You stared at him, momentarily speechless. “Are you seriously flirting with me right now? While you’re driving like a maniac?”
“Who says I can’t multitask?”
Before you could fire back with another retort, the car slowed as you neared your apartment complex. Your death grip on the handle loosened ever so slightly, though your heart was still racing.
When Bakugou finally parked, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You unbuckled your seatbelt, your hands still trembling a little.
“I hate you.”
“Love you too or whatever.”
“I—wait, you actually said it.”
“What? Can’t a man just say he loves his wife?”
“Good point, but you rarely say it!”
“I pick you up after your every shift and make sure you don’t die of starvation or poor health. That’s enough than saying it, no?”
“But you said it! So it’s different.”
“Not.”
“It is!”
“Not.”
“Is!”
Terrifying car rides aside, there was no one else you’d rather be stuck with. Even if your husband drove you absolutely crazy—both on and off the road. This must be the price of being Bakugou Katsuki’s passenger princess.
SEUMYO © 2025, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.
#‹𝟹 𓏲🗒️ꜝֶָ֢ ʾʾ#bakugou x reader#bakugou x you#bakugou x y/n#bakugou drabble#bakugou fluff#mha x reader#mha fluff#mha drabbles#bnha x reader#bnha fluff#bnha drabble#bakugou katsuki x reader#bakugo katsuki x reader#katsuki bakugo x reader#katsuki bakugou x reader#bnha bakugou#mha bakugou#bakugou katsuki#katsuki bakugou#bnha bakugo katsuki#bnha bakugou katsuki#mha bakugo katsuki#mha bakugou katsuki
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White Horse - Chapter 9: November 2023 - Part 2
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, Jos Verstappen for once not being the bad guys.
Part 2 of November.
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen
Isabelle: Hey Vic! Hope you are doing well!
Isabelle: I have a question: Do you happen to remember the breeder Max got Sassy and Jimmy from?
Victoria: Hi!! 🐱 I do! Why? Thinking about getting one?
Isabelle: Maybe… I was thinking about surprising Max for Christmas.
Victoria: 🥹🥹🥹
Victoria: That is the cutest thing I’ve heard all day.
Victoria: He’s going to melt.
Isabelle: Please don't tell him 🥺
Victoria: My lips are sealed!
Victoria: Also yes, I have the breeder’s number, she’s lovely
Victoria: She always has litters around winter!
Isabelle: perfect 🥹
Victoria: Max is going to lose his mind. I hope you're ready for him to cry about it and pretend he’s not crying.
Isabelle: I am emotionally prepared 😂
Victoria: Speaking of surprises
Victoria: I heard you quit your job???
Isabelle: Yeah.
Isabelle: A couple days ago. I just… couldn’t do it anymore.
Isabelle: I was miserable. They didn’t take me seriously.
Victoria: I had no idea, Belle.
Victoria: I’m proud of you.
Isabelle: Thank you. I’m kind of… floating now. Max calls it my “trophy wife sabbatical”.
Victoria: Well, if anybody deserves a Trophy Wife Sabbatical, it’s you 😂 And I bet my brother is thriving in your trophy wife era, don’t let him lie.
Isabelle: I love him so much it’s disgusting.
Victoria: You should
Victoria: He’s a better version of himself with you (Still dramatic, but better)
Isabelle: He’s been so patient
Isabelle: Like he never doubts I’ll figure it out
Isabelle: Even when I do
Victoria: You’ll figure it out, Belle. I don’t doubt that at all.
***
Leclerc Sibling Group Chat
(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)
Isabelle: Hey
Isabelle: Just letting you know I’m coming to Abu Dhabi.
Isabelle: Got my flight booked and hotel sorted.
Charles: nice!
Charles: see you there
Arthur: cool
Lorenzo: Safe flight!
***
The hum of the engines was steady, the cabin was dim, and Max was… well, Max.
Lando shifted restlessly in his seat across the aisle, flipping a bottle cap between his fingers., trying not to go completely insane with boredom.
Max, for his part, sat slouched across from him, hoodie pulled low over his face, legs stretched out like he owned the plane. Which he technically did.
They had been flying forever.
Vegas was a chaotic blur.
Abu Dhabi felt years away.
“Still alive?” Lando asked.
Max made a noncommittal grunt under his hoodie.
The jet bumped onto the runway in Nice for refueling, smooth as ever, and Max finally sat up, stretching.
"We're not getting off, are we?" Lando asked, yawning.
"Nope," Max said, pocketing his phone. "Just refueling."
Lando nodded, already thinking about maybe finding a Red Bull in the mini-fridge when the jet rolled to a stop.
Then the cabin door clicked.
And she stepped in.
Isabelle.
Dressed casually—jeans, sneakers, a soft pink sweater that somehow looked expensive without trying.
Her hair was loose. She carried a small overnight bag in one hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the other.
Lando’s brain broke.
"You’re joking," he blurted, sitting bolt upright.
Isabelle smiled, calm and bright. "Hi, Lando."
Max didn't even react. He stood up casually, took her bag, and tucked it into the overhead like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“You’re—what—you’re coming to Abu Dhabi?” Lando stammered.
Isabelle raised an eyebrow, amused. “I’m watching my brother race. Isn’t that what family does?”
Lando opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Because sure, technically that was a logical answer, except for the very large fact that she was coming to watch her brother race while secretly dating his biggest rival.
And Charles didn’t know.
Max dropped into the seat next to Isabelle like nothing was wrong, slinging his arm along the back of her seat, brushing her shoulder without thinking.
Lando stared.
This—
This was the first time he had really seen them.
Max and Isabelle.
Max and Isabelle.
Now that he knew, it was obvious.
The way Max’s entire body shifted when she was near — looser, softer, grounded.
The way Isabelle leaned subtly toward him without realizing it — like orbiting Max was the most natural thing in the world.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t flashy.
It wasn’t the kind of relationship you noticed if you weren’t looking closely.
But now Lando could see it everywhere.
Max’s hand brushed her knuckles lightly, and Isabelle tilted her head toward him in that soft, familiar way, smiling just for him.
Lando felt like he’d been let in on the world’s most terrifying and beautiful secret.
He groaned loudly, dropping his head back against the seat.
"Charles is going to kill me when he finds out I knew," he said to no one in particular.
Max smirked, absolutely unbothered. "We’ll all be dead eventually. Might as well enjoy the flight."
Isabelle covered her mouth to hide a laugh.
Lando glared at them both. "You’re so chill about this!"
Isabelle leaned back in her seat, folding her arms. "Because there’s nothing to be not chill about."
"You say that now," Lando muttered. "Wait until your brother explodes."
Isabelle shrugged, a little more steel underneath her calm. "He’ll get over it."
Max smiled lazily beside her. "He’ll have to."
And for a moment, watching them — Isabelle with her quiet resolve, Max with his immovable certainty — Lando realized:
Maybe they weren’t reckless.
Maybe they weren’t hiding out of fear.
Maybe they were just... keeping something for themselves.
Private. Fierce. Unshakable.
Lando sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.
"If I end up collateral damage in your little love story," he said darkly, "I'm haunting you both."
Max just chuckled, settling back with Isabelle tucked under his arm like it was second nature.
"Deal," Max said. "And thanks for flying Air Max."
Lando groaned into his hands. "I'm going to have an ulcer before we even land."
Max laughed.
Isabelle just smiled and leaned into Max's side without thinking, his hand slipping instinctively to her knee.
And Lando, sitting across from them, realized grimly:
He was not surviving this weekend.
***
Group Chat: HELP ME
(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, and Daniel Ricciardo)
Lando: she’s on the plane
Lando: she’s. on. the. plane.
Oscar: who
Daniel: oh god
Daniel: which “she” are we talking about
Daniel: please not the vegas bartender again
Lando: NO
Lando: Isabelle
Oscar: WHAT
Daniel: OH MY GOD
Oscar: LIKE
Oscar: THE Isabelle
Oscar: Charles’ sister Isabelle
Oscar: Max’s secret girlfriend Isabelle
Oscar: The one we’re all pretending not to know about Isabelle???
Lando: YES
Lando: she just got on the jet in NICE
Lando: she’s flying with us to ABU DHABI
Lando: I AM GOING TO DIE
Daniel: did max know she was coming??
Lando: he helped her with her bag and everything
Lando: like it was a normal day
Lando: like he didn’t just invite a LECLERC onto his PRIVATE JET
Lando: while secretly DATING HER
Oscar: we are all going to die
Daniel: please tell me you said something
Lando: she told me she’s just “watching her brother race”
Lando: like that’s not the most emotionally loaded thing anyone has ever said on a private jet
Oscar: I’m sweating
Oscar: Are you sweating?
Oscar: I feel like we should all be sweating
Daniel: what’s the plan??
Daniel: are we pretending we don’t know??
Daniel: are we spies now???
Lando: there is no plan
Lando: there’s only vibes
Lando: and the vibes are “Charles is going to murder us in cold blood”
Oscar: Max seems chill about it?
Lando: He’s so chill it’s terrifying
Lando: She sat down next to him and he just put his arm around her
Lando: Like she’s not the nuclear secret of the entire paddock
Daniel: He’s going to soft launch her in the paddock isn’t he
Daniel: you’re going to be THERE when it happens
Daniel: you’re IN the launch window
Lando: I didn’t sign up for this
Lando: I signed up for sim races and chaos memes
Lando: Not for hiding the Verstappen-Leclerc love story from a ticking Charles-shaped time bomb
Oscar: They’re so subtle though
Oscar: Like you wouldn’t even notice unless you KNOW
Daniel: And now you know
Daniel: And now you’re cursed
Lando: i literally said if i become collateral damage i’m haunting them both
Oscar: haunting Max would be so easy
Oscar: he already thinks every weird noise in his apartment is one of the cats
Daniel: tell Isabelle i want to be invited to the wedding if we survive this
Lando: i hate you both
Lando: they just shared a look across the cabin
Lando: i think they’re telepathic
Oscar: you’re already too deep
Oscar: we can’t help you now
Daniel: thoughts and prayers, mate
Daniel: and maybe wear orange so Charles hesitates when he comes for you
Lando: i’m gonna need more than orange
Lando: i’m gonna need a will
***
Oscar liked to think of himself as a calm guy.
Level-headed.
Mature.
Good under pressure.
But apparently, all that went out the window the second he spotted Isabelle Leclerc wandering through the paddock.
Because he knew.
He knew.
And she knew that he knew.
And he knew that she knew that he knew.
And now every single step he took felt like it was being broadcast on national television.
Oscar straightened his posture unnecessarily, like standing up straighter would make him less suspicious.
Isabelle was across the walkway, wearing a sundress, her paddock pass and a small, polite smile for every mechanic and engineer who said hello.
Completely casual.
Completely effortless.
Completely dating Max Verstappen and somehow nobody else knew.
Oscar stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual.
He would not be the one to blow their cover.
He would not be the guy who accidentally made eye contact and triggered a Red Bull-Charles Leclerc paddock war.
He focused on walking normally.
Breathing normally.
Existing normally.
It was fine.
Everything was fine.
He passed within a few meters of her, gave a small, casual nod.
The kind of nod that said "hey, I know you" without saying "hey, I know your secret relationship with Max Verstappen."
Isabelle caught his eye for a second — and her mouth twitched into the smallest, most knowing smile.
Oscar almost tripped over his own feet.
He coughed, pretended to check his watch even though he wasn’t wearing one, and kept moving like nothing happened.
Be normal, he told himself.
You’re a Formula 1 driver.
You drive at 300 kph for a living.
You can survive seeing Max’s secret girlfriend without spontaneously combusting.
Behind him, he swore he heard a soft laugh — hers, light and amused — and he decided he was never speaking of this again.
Not until it was safe.
Not until he was 5,000 miles away and absolutely certain Charles wouldn’t shank him with a champagne bottle.
Oscar made a sharp left turn toward the McLaren hospitality, muttering under his breath:
"Stay in your lane, Piastri. Stay alive."
***
The sun was sinking low, throwing long shadows across the paddock. Carlos leaned back against a concrete wall near the Ferrari motorhome, helmet balanced beside him, sipping slowly from a bottle of water as Charles scrolled aimlessly through his phone.
It was rare to get these moments—quiet, easy, just them.
But something had been itching at the back of Carlos’ mind lately.
A conversation with Lando.
Observations that were getting harder to ignore.
Something had been gnawing at Carlos for weeks now.
So Carlos spoke.
“Your sister’s been doing some pretty cool work lately,” he said casually.
Charles didn’t look up. “Yeah?”
“Architectural stuff. Monaco interiors. Heard she’s doing well.”
Charles gave a vague shrug. “I guess.”
Carlos waited for more. It didn’t come.
“She designed Max’s penthouse, right?” he pushed.
Charles made a noncommittal noise. “She helped with it or something. Picked out the furniture.”
Carlos blinked. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—she didn’t just decorate. She designed it. Layouts. Custom interiors. Lighting plans. All of it.”
Charles frowned like he genuinely didn’t understand. “Okay…? So?”
Carlos stared at him. “So… that’s a big deal, mate.”
Charles tilted his head. “She’s always been good at decorating.”
Carlos was quiet for a second too long.
Decorating.
“Dios mio,” he muttered, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “You really don’t get it.”
“Get what?” Charles asked, clearly confused now. “She’s got a job, she likes it, I’m happy for her. What’s your point?”
“My point,” Carlos said, carefully measured, “is that you’re acting like she spent an afternoon picking paint colors. She designed that place. From scratch. Layouts. Architecture. Interior. Everything.”
Charles looked nonplussed. “She’s good at that stuff. ”
Carlos stared at him for a second.
Waiting for the punchline.
It didn’t come.
“You’re kidding,” Carlos said flatly.
Charles glanced over, frowning. “What?”
Carlos shook his head slowly. “That’s your sister, mate. Show a little respect. You talk about Isabelle like she’s some bored little sister playing pretend. Like her work isn’t real.”
Charles blinked. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said,” Carlos snapped. “You talk about what she does like it’s picking curtains. Like she’s not out there building a career people actually respect. You know how many people would kill to design a place like Max’s penthouse?”
Charles looked blank. “It’s just a flat.”
Carlos let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “No. It’s not. It’s a statement. A place Max trusted someone to shape. And your sister did that.”
Charles shrugged, still defensive. “Okay, well, good for her.”
Carlos gave him a look. “Good for her?”
“Yeah, I mean—I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Carlos exhaled, eyes narrowing slightly. “I want you to realize that she’s more than ‘my sister who’s good at decorating.’ I want you to see her. Because everyone else seems to.”
***
Text Messages: Lando Norris & Carlos Sainz Jr.
Carlos: What the hell.
Lando: oh no
Lando: what did I do.
Carlos: I talked to Charles.
Carlos: Charles talks about his sister like she’s some intern playing with paint samples
Carlos: She’s out here designing penthouses and he’s like “yeah she’s good at decorating”
Lando: oh my god 💀
Carlos: I wanted to shake him
Carlos: how do you not SEE your own sister
Carlos: She’s killing it
Carlos: She’s literally a better architect than half the guys building million dollar places in Monaco.
Lando: yeah
Lando: max definitely sees it lol
Carlos: Yeah, well, at least Max appreciates good work
Lando: not just her work, mate 😬
Carlos: What does that mean?
Lando: uh
Lando: nvm
Lando: forget i said anything
Carlos: LANDO.
Lando: max and isabelle are a thing okay!!!
Lando: they’ve been a thing for months!!
Carlos: Are you saying
Carlos: Max Verstappen
Carlos: Is dating Isabelle Leclerc?!
Lando: 😬😬😬😬😬
Carlos: dios mio
Carlos: does CHARLES know
Lando: oh absolutely not
Lando: zero clue
Lando: brain empty
Lando: we’re all going to die when he finds out
***
Group Chat: HELP ME
(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo and Carlos Sainz Jr.)
Carlos: What is this?
Oscar: Oh no
Carlos: Lando, why am I here?
Carlos: Why do you keep dragging me deeper into this
Daniel: WELCOME CARLOS!!
Daniel: You’ve joined an elite group of people who are 😬 aware 😬
Oscar: This is a safe space for those who are emotionally compromised by Max dating Isabelle
Carlos: Are you people insane?
Lando: yes
Carlos: I just found out like 7 minutes ago.
Carlos: I’m still processing the fact that Max is dating Charles’ SISTER
Carlos: and that apparently EVERYONE BUT CHARLES KNOWS
Oscar: that’s the part that really gets you huh
Carlos: YES, OSCAR
Carlos: how has CHARLES not noticed his own sister is dating his rival
Daniel: Love is the greatest camouflage
Lando: bro what
Daniel: idk it sounded poetic
Carlos: I can’t believe you all kept this to yourselves
Oscar: I found out in the cheese aisle of a supermarket. He knew her jam preferences. And then he smiled at her. like softly
Lando: Max in love is terrifying
Lando: he’s… emotionally functional
Daniel: I personally love this era for him
Daniel: boyfriend max is my favorite max
Daniel: max 2.0: will fight you and then bring you tea
Carlos: I can’t be part of this
Carlos: i’m not stable enough
Carlos: i just yelled at charles for not respecting her work and NOW I KNOW SHE’S DESIGNING MAX’S APARTMENT BECAUSE THEY’RE TOGETHER
Carlos: I AM HIS TEAMMATE.
Oscar: oh no
Lando: oh my god
Daniel: this is my favorite plot twist
Carlos: I’m going to lie down in the garage and never get up
Lando: welcome to the group
Lando: you’ll get used to the emotional whiplash
Oscar: We’re all just waiting for the day Charles finds out and the world ends
Daniel: we should get matching t-shirts
Daniel: i survived the verstappen-leclerc revelation and all i got was anxiety
***
The paddock was a flurry of noise—engine whines, media chatter— and Isabelle Leclerc was sipping iced water and trying not to sweat through her linen dress. One of Max’s linen shirts—stolen and knotted over her waist—was shielding her from the worst of the heat, and her sunglasses were perched high in her hair.
She smiled politely when people passed, waved when engineers greeted her, and genuinely lit up when Gianpiero Lambiase came to say hello.
“Hey,” GP said, clearly mid-break between meetings. “I heard you have opinions.”
Isabelle tilted her head. “About?”
“Backsplash tiles,” he said, completely serious. “Kitchen remodel. My wife thinks I’m hopeless.”
Isabelle laughed, genuinely delighted. “I do have opinions. And Pinterest boards, if you’re interested.”
GP looked genuinely relieved. “Bless you. She keeps saying she wants something that feels 'European farmhouse meets modern desert' and I have no idea what that means.”
“It means she wants matte finish tiles, not glossy,” Isabelle said immediately. “And don’t pick anything with faux distressing. It always looks cheap.”
GP raised both eyebrows, intrigued. “Okay. I’ll tell her I consulted an expert.”
They chatted for a few more minutes—about grout colors, countertop edges, the horrors of open shelving—before GP was called away to a strategy meeting.
Isabelle turned back to her water and tried to will the heat away.
And then—
“Can I talk to you?”
She looked up.
Charles. Sunglasses on, jaw tight, expression unreadable.
“Sure,” she said cautiously, standing. “Everything okay?”
He didn’t answer. Just jerked his chin in the direction of the quieter walkway near the back of the paddock. She followed, unease creeping up her spine.
When they reached the shaded area, Charles turned on her sharply.
“Seriously, Isabelle?”
She blinked. “I—what?”
“GP?” he snapped.
Her eyebrows flew up. “What about him?”
“You’re flirting with Max’s engineer now?”
Isabelle just… stared.
“Are you serious right now?” she asked.
Charles crossed his arms. “He’s married, Isa.”
“Oh my god,” she said, incredulous. “You think I’m flirting with him?”
Charles didn’t respond, which was answer enough.
Isabelle took a step back. “You think I’m—what, exactly? A homewrecker? Some desperate little paddock groupie trying to sleep her way around Red Bull?”
“I didn’t say that,” he bit out, but his tone said otherwise.
“You didn’t have to!” she snapped. “You said it with your face. And your judgmental little ‘big brother’ voice.”
Charles looked uncomfortable for the first time, but didn’t back down. “It’s not about judging you. It’s about how it looks.”
“Oh, how it looks?” Isabelle laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You’re really going to lecture me on appearances? You—whose own dating history has been very well documented—are suddenly the morality police?”
“That’s different,” he muttered.
“No, it’s not.” She stepped in close, her voice lower now. “I wasn’t flirting. GP and I were talking about backsplash tiles. For his kitchen remodel. With his wife. Because, surprise, I have a degree and actual taste and people ask for my opinion.”
Charles blinked.
“I cannot believe you think so little of me,” she said, voice shaking. “Do you really think I’d put myself in that position? That I’d disrespect someone’s marriage like that?”
His jaw clenched, guilt flickering behind his eyes. “I just—saw you. Laughing. And I assumed—”
“Well maybe stop assuming, Charles.” Her voice broke, and she quickly looked away. “You assume the worst. You assume I’m… what? Naive? Reckless? Looking for attention? You never give me the benefit of the doubt.”
Charles swallowed. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”
“By calling me a homewrecker?”
He winced.
Isabelle stepped back, the chill in the air suddenly sharper. “I don’t need your protection, Charles. I need your respect.”
They stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of her words settling between them like dust.
“I came to support you,” she said softly. “ And now I wish I’d stayed home.”
“And for the record,” Isabelle said, stepping past him, “if I was flirting with someone, I wouldn’t be flirting with a guy, who is holding a ‘World’s Best Dad’ travel mug and has a wedding band on his finger.”
***
The door clicked softly behind him as Max stepped into the suite, pulling his cap off and running a hand through his hair.
It had been a long, sticky day at the track — race prep, debriefs, heat clinging to everything — and all he wanted was to see her.
"Belle?" he called gently.
No answer.
He frowned, dropping his keys and phone onto the entry table, kicking off his shoes. The suite was mostly dark, save for the dim bedside lamp glowing through the half-closed bedroom door.
Max pushed it open carefully.
And there she was.
Isabelle sat curled up on the edge of the bed, still wearing her soft linen dress, her head bowed low.
Her shoulders were shaking.
Max’s heart dropped.
"Belle," he said immediately, voice low and sharp with concern, crossing the room in three quick strides. "Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?"
She shook her head, wiping at her face furiously with the sleeve of his shirt, like she was trying to erase the evidence.
It didn’t work.
Her cheeks were flushed, eyes red-rimmed, mouth trembling in that way that always gutted him.
Max sat down beside her, close but not crowding her, careful.
He knew her well enough to know she needed a second before he touched her.
Isabelle dragged in a shaky breath. "It’s stupid."
"Nothing that makes you cry is stupid," Max said firmly.
She let out a broken laugh. "Tell that to your future brother-in-law."
Max’s jaw clenched instantly. "Charles?"
Isabelle nodded miserably.
Max didn’t even try to temper the fury that flared in his chest.
"What did he say?" His voice was low, dangerous.
She shook her head again, sniffling. "He—he saw me talking to GP and he thought I was flirting with him."
Max blinked.
And then, against every better instinct, he let out a short, incredulous laugh.
Because seriously?
"Gianpiero Lambiase? My Race Engineer?!" Max said, completely baffled. "He thought you were flirting with GP?"
Isabelle let out a choked noise — somewhere between a sob and a laugh — and Max immediately reached out, pulling her carefully into his chest.
She came willingly, curling into him like she always did, her fists bunching into his shirt.
Max rested his chin on top of her head, his arms wrapped tight around her.
"You were talking about tile grout and kitchen backsplash colors," he muttered into her hair, still half-laughing, half-furious, because GP had told him all about that. And how Isabelle had apparently solved the tile dilemma in the Lambiase Household. "And Charles thought you were seducing a man who literally carries a ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug everywhere?"
Isabelle gave a miserable little laugh through her tears, burying her face in her hands. "I feel horrible. Like I besmirched GP’s honor."
Max full-on laughed this time, wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders and tugging her into his chest.
"Belle," he said, shaking his head against her hair, "you didn’t besmirch anything. You didn’t do anything wrong."
She gave a tiny groan of despair. "His poor wife. I owe her an apology email. And a free kitchen consultation."
Max kissed the top of her head. "His wife’s will probably be crying laughing when she hears this story. She knows what she married — a man who brings spreadsheet printouts to pick out a dishwasher."
That finally coaxed a watery chuckle from her.
"Charles said it looked bad," Isabelle whispered miserably. "Like I was being careless."
Max closed his eyes for a second, breathing through the anger pulsing hot under his skin.
Careless.
Isabelle — who second-guessed every step she took, every word she said.
Isabelle — who bent over backwards to never make anyone uncomfortable.
Isabelle — who had spent years shrinking herself so no one could accuse her of taking up too much space.
Careless.
It made him want to throw something.
"You," Max said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye, "are the least careless person I have ever met."
She gave him a watery little smile.
"And for the record," Max added, thumb brushing under her damp cheekbone, "if you were actually trying to flirt with someone, it wouldn’t be a married engineer who spends his lunch break arguing about countertop materials and backsplash tiles."
Isabelle laughed properly then, the sound soft and real against his chest.
"There’s my girl," Max murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair.
He rocked them gently for a second, grounding her, feeling the last of the tension bleed out of her body.
"You know what?" he said after a beat, voice lighter. "Next time Charles wants to accuse you of something, make it worth it."
She sniffed, laughing again. "Like what?"
Max shrugged, grinning. "Next time? Flirt with me in the garage. Right in front of him. Really traumatize him."
Isabelle snorted against his chest. "You’re evil."
"Only for you," Max said, kissing the side of her head again. "And besides, you’re much better at flirting than you think."
She lifted her head slightly, giving him a skeptical look.
Max smirked, leaning in until their noses brushed. "You got me, didn’t you?"
And Isabelle, finally smiling for real, kissed him — slow, lingering — like she was remembering exactly how.
Max kissed her back just as fiercely, every slow sweep of his mouth saying what he couldn’t put into words:
I see you. I trust you. I love you.
And he swore, next time anyone made her cry — even Charles — they’d have to go through him first.
And Max Verstappen didn’t lose.
****
Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie
Isabelle: Remind me again why I came to this race
Emilie: oh no. What happened? Do i need bail money?
Isabelle: I had a fight with Charles. He thought I was flirting with GP. Because we were talking about backsplash tiles for his KITCHEN with his WIFE.
Emilie: I’m going to set something on fire
Isabelle: Please don’t. Max already looks like he wants to fight him.
Emilie: Good.
Emilie: honestly give me 20 minutes and a sharp object
Isabelle: Em
Emilie: No because it’s insane
Emilie: He sees you laughing once and thinks you’re a scandal
Emilie: But when Arthur was publicly dating 13 supermodels a year it’s “boys will be boys”.
Isabelle: I know. It’s just exhausting
Emilie: He’s exhausting. You’re a ray of sunshine. He’s lucky to breathe the same air as you.
Isabelle: You’re very dramatic
Emilie: And you love me for it
Isabelle: I do
Isabelle: Max was perfect about it
Emilie: Of course he was. He worships the ground you walk on
Emilie: Stay strong, stay hydrated and if Charles says anything else dumb, just smile and picture me flipping him off from 5000 miles away
Isabelle: That actually helps
Emilie: Good. Love you.
Isabelle: love you too.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase.
Max: You homewrecker
GP: What???
Max: Charles thinks you’re trying to steal my girlfriend 😂
GP: WHAT
GP: MAX WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT
Max: He thought Belle was flirting with you in the paddock
GP: WE WERE TALKING ABOUT BACKSPLASH TILES
GP: AND GROUT COLORS
Max: I know
Max: Belle told me
Max: I’m still laughing
Max: apparently "matte finish" is code for seduction now
GP: MAX
GP: SHE CRITIQUED MY TILE SAMPLE CHOICES
GP: I TOOK NOTES
GP: I SAID THE WORD “NEUTRAL GROUT”
Max: Dangerous game you’re playing, mate
Max: Luring innocent women with your opinions on subway tile.
GP: I’m MARRIED
GP: HAPPILY
GP: FOR FIFTEEN YEARS
GP: I WAS ASKING FOR DESIGN HELP BECAUSE MY WIFE SAID I HAVE “DAD BRAIN” AND NO TASTE
Max: Well now you’ve been accused of seducing my girlfriend with your “dad brain”
Max: big scandal, very dramatic
GP: I just wanted help choosing tile
Max: It gets better
Max: Belle is mortified
Max: She keeps saying she “besmirched your honour” and brought shame upon your grout consultation
GP: ...oh my god
GP: please tell her she did no such thing
GP: she saved me
GP: her recommendation singlehandedly ended a three-week argument with my wife
Max: She will be delighted to hear that
Max: She was preparing to write a formal apology email. And offer to design your whole kitchen free of charge.
GP: Tell her I am in awe
GP: and also a little afraid
GP: She is frighteningly good at backsplash logic
Max: She is.
Max: That’s one of the many, many reasons why I love her.
GP: Next time can we please avoid dragging me into romantic drama over interior finishes
Max: No promises
Max: You’re too charming when you talk grout
**
Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Eloisa Lambiase
GP: You are not going to believe what happened today
Eloisa: Did Max accidentally make another engineer cry?
GP: No, worse
GP: I have been accused of seducing Max’s girlfriend
Eloisa: I— what
GP: CHARLES LECLERC
GP: thought i was FLIRTING
GP: with HIS SISTER
GP: BECAUSE I ASKED FOR BACKSPLASH TILE ADVICE
Eloisa: I’M SORRY WHAT
Eloisa: YOU SEDUCED ISABELLE LECLERC???
GP: I DIDN’T SEDUCE ANYONE
GP: I was just asking for backsplash advice!
Eloisa: YOU GOT ACCUSED OF FLIRTING DURING A BACKSPLASH CHAT???
GP: It was in the paddock
GP: Charles saw us talking
GP: Apparently Isabelle laughed at something I said
GP: Now she’s a homewrecker and I tried to seduce her.
Eloisa: OH MY GOD I’M CRYING
GP: Max thinks it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened
GP: He called me "dangerous" and said I was “seducing her by talking about matte finish tiles”
GP: I want to resign
Eloisa: NO
Eloisa: YOU’RE FAMOUS NOW
Eloisa: YOU’RE THE F1 PADDOCK’S MOST DESIRED MAN
GP: Please stop
GP: I was holding my “World’s Best Dad” mug
GP: She was giving professional recommendations
Eloisa: You WERE
Eloisa: and apparently it was HOT
GP: I’m blocking you
Eloisa: No you’re not
Eloisa: You’re my husband, you sexy kitchen-reno Casanova
GP: Max said Isabelle feels terrible and thinks she “besmirched my honour”
Eloisa: please tell her she SAVED us
Eloisa: your choices were horrifying before she stepped in
Eloisa: She’s invited to all future home improvement debates
Eloisa: I trust her judgement more than yours
GP: Apparently she offered to redesign our entire kitchen as an apology.
Eloisa: DO NOT LET HER TAKE THAT BACK
Eloisa: TAKE THE FREE DESIGN WORK
Eloisa: SHE HAS TASTE AND I AM TIRED OF ARGUING ABOUT SUBWAY TILE
GP: I feel like I’ve lost control of my life
Eloisa: You did the moment you started saying “grout lines” like it was sexy
GP: …you used to find that sexy
Eloisa: I still do
Eloisa: Now let the nice woman redesign our kitchen and stop making Max cry with your effortless charm
Eloisa: We’ll have STUNNING countertops.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen
Max: Can you do me a favor tomorrow?
Jos: Depends what it is.
Max: Keep an eye on Belle in the paddock for me
Max: I’ll be busy with Race prep and I don't want her stuck alone with the circus.
Jos: Something happen?
Max: Charles was an idiot. Made her cry. Thought she was flirting with GP.
Jos: ...what?
Max: They were talking about backsplash tiles. Tiles, dad
Max: And Charles thought she was seducing him
Max: GP has a wife and a mug that says "world’s best dad".
Max: Belle is mortified and doesn’t want to make a scene but I’d feel better if someone was around.
Jos: Charles is lucky she’s your girlfriend and not mine or i’d have knocked him into next week.
Max: Thanks, dad.
Max: So, you’ll be around?
Jos: Yeah.
Jos: I like her
Max: you do?
Jos: Yes.
Jos: She’s calm
Jos: Doesn’t care about the attention.
Jos: Treats you like a person, not a trophy.
Jos: And she’s polite to everyone.
Jos: You need that, especially with this life
Jos: and she reminds me of your mother.
Jos: The good parts.
Max: Thanks.
Jos: Don’t thank me
Jos: If her brother opens his mouth again, I won’t be as diplomatic as you
Max: Copy that
Jos: Go to sleep. You have a race tomorrow.
***
The sun was barely high enough to cast proper shadows across the paddock yet, but already the place was humming — engines firing up in garages, cameras being unpacked, people moving with that sharp, coiled energy that only came on race days.
Isabelle kept her head down as she crossed toward the Ferrari motorhome, clutching her coffee cup like a lifeline.
She had barely slept.
It wasn’t Charles’ words from yesterday that lingered — it was the old, familiar sting they brought back.
The feeling of being out of place.
Not enough.
Too much.
She was rounding a corner when a voice cut across her path.
"Belle."
She froze.
Turned slowly.
Jos Verstappen stood there.
Arms crossed.
Expression like granite.
For a wild second, Isabelle panicked.
Had she done something wrong?
Was this about... something?
Everything?
Jos jerked his chin toward the side of the hospitality tent.
"Come."
Not a request.
Heart thudding, she followed him.
They walked in silence along the quieter edge of the paddock, boots scuffing against the concrete, the buzz of early morning preparations filling the air around them.
Finally, Jos stopped near a low concrete wall, leaned one elbow on it, and looked at her.
Not soft.
Not kind.
Just... assessing.
"You’re not weak," he said, voice blunt.
Isabelle blinked. "I—thank you?"
Jos grunted. "Don’t let them treat you like you are."
Isabelle opened her mouth, but he held up a hand to cut her off.
"Doesn’t matter what your brother says. Doesn’t matter what anyone sees. You know who you are. You know who you stand next to."
She swallowed hard.
Jos squinted at her, like checking if she understood.
"You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone," he said. "Not even family."
He straightened then, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve like the conversation wasn’t weighing the air between them.
"And if anyone gives you trouble today," Jos added, voice low and deliberate, "tell them they can answer to me."
Isabelle stared at him.
Jos Verstappen — who scared half the paddock with a look — had just offered to fight her battles.
Or at least stand behind her, silent and immovable, like a wall no one could knock down.
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
Jos shifted, clearly uncomfortable with the lingering emotions.
"You’re good for him," he said roughly. "Better than he deserves, maybe."
Isabelle pressed her lips together hard.
Jos glanced away toward the garages, then back at her.
"Head up," he said. "Eyes forward. You’re a Verstappen now."
And with a short nod — like it was settled, permanent, not up for discussion — he turned and walked off, leaving her standing there, stunned, the weight of his words hitting harder than any podium speech or paddock rumor ever could.
A Verstappen.
She let out a shaky breath, squaring her shoulders.
Head up. Eyes forward.
She could do that.
***
Post Race Press Conference -Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2023
Moderator: Congratulations, gentlemen. Max, let’s start with you — your 19th win of the season, an incredible dominant performance. How does it feel wrapping up the year on such a high?
Max Verstappen: It feels good. The team did an amazing job, as always. Car was strong all weekend. I’m happy to end the season this way.
Moderator: Charles, a strong second place today. How would you summarize your season?
Charles: (smiling, relaxed) It’s been a challenging year, but I think we made good progress toward the end. P2 today was the maximum. Happy to finish like this, and looking forward to building next season.
Moderator: George, third place for you today — and second for Mercedes in the Constructors'. Happy with that result?
George: (nods) Yeah, definitely. We knew coming into this weekend it would be tight, so I’m proud of the whole team. Good momentum heading into the winter break.
Moderator: For all three — with it being the last race of the season, a lot of families and friends are here this weekend. How much does it mean to have that kind of support?
Charles: (nodding) It’s always special. Seeing familiar faces after the race, sharing the moment — it makes all the difference.
George: (agreeing quickly) Yeah, it’s important. The season’s so long — having people show up and stick by you is massive.
Max: (voice sharp, no smile) It’s nice. Really nice when the people you care about show up. And I think that is something we need appreciate more and shouldn’t take for granted. It makes you realize who's paying attention — and who’s not.
(Charles stiffens slightly, casting a sidelong glance at Max, visibly confused. George starts tapping his fingers quietly against his knee like he’s trying to physically distract himself.)
Moderator: Moving on—Charles, you mentioned building for next season. Where do you think Ferrari needs to improve to challenge Red Bull more consistently?
Charles: I think we’ve made steps forward with race pace. But qualifying is still critical. We have to start stronger next year.
(Max’s mouth twitches — not quite a smile.)
Moderator: George, same question for you regarding Mercedes?
George: (relieved to be asked something normal) Yeah, similar. We’re closing the gap, but there’s still work to do. Everyone’s going to push hard over the winter.
Moderator: Charles, what was the most challenging part of your race today?
Charles: Uh, tire management, probably. We tried a different strategy and it wasn’t perfect. But we’ll learn from it and come back stronger next year.
Max: (flatly, without looking at him) Learning is important. Assuming you recognize the problem.
(George visibly bites his cheek to keep from reacting.)
Moderator: (to George, desperate for a less icy subject) George, what does the off-season look like for you?
George: (relieved) Um—sleep. Lots of sleep. Definitely time with family and friends. Just recharge and come back ready.
Moderator: And Charles?
Charles: (smiling automatically) Spending time with family and friends. Relaxing. Recharging.
Max: (calm, but brutal) Spending time with people who actually care about you. (pause) Quality over quantity.
(Dead silence in the room.)
(George stares at the floor like it might swallow him.)
(Charles looks genuinely confused.)
Moderator: (quickly) Alright, thank you, gentlemen. That’s all for today.
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/f1oversteer: Why was Max looking at charles like he wanted to fistfight him during the press conference???
@/paddocktea: not to be dramatic but Max verstappen’s post-race energy was "say one more word and i'll launch you into the sun" and it was entirely directed at charles leclerc. what is going ON
@/racingincircles: ok but the way Max said "the people who actually show up" while STARING at charles... 😭😭😭 what did he mean by that
@/gp2engine: did charles and Max have a secret fistfight behind the garages or something why is the vibe so violent
@/monaco_mafia: george sitting in the middle of Max and charles looking like a victorian child watching his parents argue at dinner
@/f1clownery: i know charles is confused but the rest of us are confused too king WHO UPSET MAX
@/wheelsextension: i’m sorry but charles leclerc’s energy today was so "what did i do" and Max’s was "you know exactly what you did"... except i don't think he does and neither do we… i need answers
@pitlanepettiness: sources (vibes) are saying something WILD is going down behind the scenes and i for one am ready for the netflix edit
@fastlanefreaks: you could feel the beef through the screen. i am eating it up but also terrified.
@motorsportmess: Max smiling tightly while charles is visibly sweating and george is trying to disappear into the floorboards... academy award winning drama
@/griddyforgp: Max throwing shade like it's personal and charles sitting there looking like he just got accused of murder
@/ferrarifangirl: charles: 😐 Max: 🙂🔪 george: 👀👟💨
@/f1sillyseason: petition for someone to tell us the FULL tea immediately i am not surviving the offseason otherwise
@/maxstappen44: someone check the abu dhabi paddock for the body bc Max BURIED charles during that conference and no one even noticed at first
@/charlesupportgroup: me watching Max roast my boy alive while he looks increasingly confused 👁️👄👁️
@/f1updates: sources in the paddock say “everyone’s being normal” but the vibes are off like someone’s about to get unfollowed on instagram levels of off
@/abudhabidrama: you are telling me Max verstappen and charles leclerc are beefing and i don't even get a backstory??? this is abuse
@/f1wagsleaks: what the actual hell is going on between Max and charles?? Max had BEEF ENERGY in that press conference and charles looked like he had no idea why i’m obsessed
@/formulachaos: MAX: “It’s nice when the people in your life actually show up to support you :)” stares directly at Charles CHARLES: 🧍♂️ GEORGE: 👀🚪
@/postracegossip: this is officially the most tense podium press conference i’ve ever seen someone bring popcorn and possibly a referee
@/notdutchjustfast: someone explain to me like I’m five: Why is Max acting like Charles ran over his cat and why is Charles acting like he doesn’t remember what a cat is
@/f1girliesunite: this has nothing to do with racing and everything to do with a woman, I feel it
@/danriccsmilez:George Russell is the human equivalent of the “I do not see it” meme rn He saw whatever drama that was and said “not my circus, not my millionaires”
@/mclarenshadowstalker: Lando. speak now. We know you know TELL US
@/chaosandcheckered: Next year’s Drive to Survive is going to need a trigger warning
***
Text Messages: George Russell & Alex Albon
George: Mate, do you know what’s going on between max and charles
Alex: what Alex: no Alex: why
George: Press conference was WEIRD George: Max basically roasted him alive George: Charles looked like he didn’t even know why
Alex: lol Alex: no idea Alex: i wasn’t even paying attentio
George: alex George: seriously George: it was tense
Alex: how tense are we talking Alex: like Alex: mild paddock gossip tense Alex: or Alex: security might need to intervene tense
George: somewhere in the middle George: like "passive aggressive christmas dinner" levels of tense
Alex: oof Alex: hate that
George: i swear max was this close to throwing a chair
Alex: charles wouldn’t survive that Alex: he’d just start apologizing and not know why
George: that’s the problem George: he looked genuinely confused
Alex: 😂😂 Alex: classic
George: seriously George: if you hear anything George: tell me George: i don’t want to get blindsided if they start swinging in parc fermé
Alex: lmao Alex: will keep ears open Alex: but rn all i know is Alex: max is mad Alex: charles is confused Alex: george is stressed
George: useless
Alex: you knew that when you texted me 🫶
***
Text Messages: George Russell & Lando Norris
George: Mate George: What’s going on with max and charles
Lando: Uh Lando: what do you mean
George: don’t play dumb George: press conference was insane George: max basically called him fake to his face
Lando: 👀 Lando: i mean Lando: uh Lando: i didn’t really notice anything
George: lando
Lando: maybe max’s just tired?? Lando: long season Lando: lots of emotions you know 😅
George: he looked ready to rip someone’s head off
Lando: 😬 Lando: well Lando: maybe he just really cares about honesty and support and…stuff
George: what do you know
Lando: nothing
George: lando.
Lando: i don’t know anything i can legally say
George: what does that even mean
Lando: listen mate Lando: for your own safety Lando: stay out of it
George: out of what??
Lando: THE VORTEX
George: what vortex
Lando: the verstappen-leclerc vortex Lando: you don’t want to get sucked in
George: lando. George: what did max do George: what did charles do
Lando: max didn’t do anything Lando: charles didn’t do anything Lando: everyone’s innocent Lando: and i’m especially innocent
George: you’re being very suspicious
Lando: i’m being ALIVE Lando: which is what you should focus on
George: so i should be worried
Lando: VERY worried Lando: but not about you Lando: about your proximity to the drama
George: brilliant George: great George: fantastic
Lando: good chat 😌
George: remind me to never trust you again
Lando: you never should’ve started
***
Fernando Alonso liked to think he was good at reading people.
Came with the territory — two decades in Formula 1, countless teammates, politics thicker than engine oil. You survived by knowing who was lying, who was hiding something, who was seconds from setting fire to their own garage.
And today? Today, something was off.
He was leaning casually against the Aston Martin hospitality wall, sipping a tiny, bitter espresso, when he saw it.
Max Verstappen. Walking through the paddock. Not alone.
Isabelle Leclerc, right beside him.
Nothing scandalous. No hand-holding, no grand gestures. Just two people walking.
But Max — Max, who barely let people breathe the same air as him — was walking close. Protective. Easy. Like it wasn’t new. Like it wasn’t a secret.
Fernando narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses.
Interesting.
He watched them — Max steering her casually through the chaos with a light touch at the small of her back, Isabelle laughing at something he said, bright and unbothered.
Fernando turned slightly, caught a glimpse of Charles Leclerc a few garages down — not noticing any of this.
More interesting.
Later, during media rounds, he saw Lando Norris visibly flinch when someone mentioned Isabelle's name near a microphone.
And Fernando — two-time world champion, professional paddock gossip connoisseur — put it all together.
After all, he hadn’t survived in this sport for nothing.
He caught Max alone for a moment near the Red Bull hospitality, standing with that casual, lazy posture that fooled no one.
Fernando strolled up, espresso in hand.
"Congratulations," Fernando said smoothly. "On the race. And... other things."
Max raised an eyebrow, cool as ever. "Thanks."
Fernando sipped his coffee, studying him over the rim of the cup. "You think Charles is going to kill you when he finds out?"
Max’s mouth twitched. "Eventually."
Fernando chuckled, low and pleased. "Good. It was getting boring around here."
Max just smirked, entirely unbothered.
Fernando shook his head, amused beyond measure. "You know," he said, stepping back, "I always knew you were a reckless bastard. Just didn’t think you'd go for family drama reckless."
Max tipped his head slightly, as if accepting the compliment.
"And her?" Fernando asked, almost curiously. "Isabelle?"
Max’s smirk faded, just a little, replaced by something quieter. Steadier.
Fernando recognized it immediately — the rare thing that made even champions stupid.
Real.
Not for show. Not for the cameras. Not for PR.
Max shrugged one shoulder, casual but firm. "She’s worth it."
Fernando barked a short laugh, clapped Max on the shoulder once. "Good," he said. "Make it worth it."
Then he tossed back the rest of his espresso, tossed the cup into a bin without looking, and strolled away — whistling under his breath.
Because finally, finally, the paddock was interesting again.
***
The roar of celebration had faded behind them. No club lights, no champagne-soaked chaos, no loud music or podium flashbacks playing on screens.
Just altitude, quiet, and the steady hum of the jet engines as they cut through the darkness above the Gulf.
Isabelle curled into the wide leather seat, legs tucked beneath her, Max’s hoodie swallowed around her frame. Across from her, Max sat slouched with one arm thrown over the back of the seat, utterly at ease. The cap was gone, curls slightly messy. His race suit was half-unzipped and swapped for a black t-shirt. He looked tired. Soft around the edges.
He’d insisted they skip the party. Said he’d had enough noise. Said he just wanted to go home. Said she was home.
She hadn’t argued.
Now, with the cabin lights dimmed and the stars beyond the windows flickering against the black, Isabelle found herself staring at him — at his calm, unreadable profile — and feeling something enormous pressing against her chest.
"Your dad found me this morning," she said, voice quiet, almost lost in the hum.
Max turned to her immediately, alert in that subtle way he always was when it came to her. "Yeah?"
She nodded, gaze dropping to the thin gold ring around her thumb — one he’d bought her in Tokyo because she’d paused in front of a shop window for half a second.
"He pulled me aside. Said some things."
Max’s brows lifted. "Bad things?"
She shook her head. "No. Just... direct."
Max’s mouth twitched. "So, my father."
Isabelle smiled faintly. "He told me I wasn’t weak. That I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone. That I was a Verstappen now."
That made Max still. Not alarmed. Not tense. Just still. Like the words had rooted somewhere deep.
"He said if anyone gave me trouble, they’d have to answer to him," she added, voice softer now. "Then just walked off like he hadn’t made me want to cry in the middle of the paddock."
Max leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, elbows propped. Watching her.
"I didn’t ask him to say that," he said, measured. "I only asked him to look out for you."
"I know," she murmured.
"And?" he asked, eyes searching hers. "Did it help?"
She let out a slow breath. "Yeah. It helped. It was... grounding. A little terrifying. But grounding."
Max smiled, small and real. "He likes you."
"Scary way of showing it," she said wryly.
Max shrugged. "He doesn’t know how to be soft. But loyalty? That’s his version of love."
She nodded slowly. Let the words sink in.
After a moment, she added, quieter still: "It meant something. Hearing that. Being told I belonged."
Max reached across the space between them and took her hand, threading their fingers together.
"In every way that matters," he said, voice low, steady, fierce, "you already are."
Her eyes flicked up to his.
"You’re mine," Max added, thumb brushing along the curve of her knuckle. "My partner. My person. My home."
She swallowed thickly. His hand was warm, steady. Unmoving.
"And if you want your passport to match someday..."
He smiled, just a little — not teasing, not even hinting.
Promise.
"We’ll make that happen too."
Isabelle’s breath hitched.
There was no rush.
No pressure.
But it was there — quiet and solid and waiting.
The life they were building.
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, leaning across the aisle until her forehead rested against his.
"I love you," she whispered.
"I know," Max murmured. "I love you more."
And the hum of the engines, the silence of the sky, the softness of this stolen moment — it all folded in around them like a secret the world hadn’t figured out yet.
But soon.
Soon, they wouldn’t be hiding anymore.
And Isabelle — steady and ready — would meet it all head-on. Head up. Eyes forward.
Like a Verstappen.
***
Instagram Story: @/isabelleleclerc
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/gridgossip: Isabelle ending her q&a by thanking people for asking about HER and not her brothers... I'm crying in the club actually
@/monacoprincess: no bc imagine living your whole life in the shadow of your brothers and finally being like "thank you for seeing me". this girl deserves the world
@/paddocktalk: her just wanting to exist as HERSELF not "charles' sister" not "leclerc family member #3" just isabelle i’m going to start swinging
@/f1girlie: the worst part is you can TELL she didn’t expect people to care about her and she still answered so kindly and openly… protect her at all costs
@/undercutqueen: me watching isabelle leclerc quietly exist without demanding attention and somehow being the most interesting person in the paddock [insert emotional damage meme]
@/rbrsunshine: no bc the amount of grace and patience isabelle must have to live in the leclerc orbit and STILL be this soft and sweet… i would have gone feral YEARS ago
@/paddocktea: the fact that this was her first Q&A ever and she was genuinely shocked people asked about her and not charles/arthur??? we failed her as a society
@/tifosimama: you know what? isabelle leclerc appreciation post. talented. stylish. kind. strong. soft-spoken but powerful. this is an isabelle stan account now.
@/f1girlies: when isabelle said "everyone should have an emilie" about emilie…i just. i need to go lie down.
@/mclarenmischief: also her talking about victoria verstappen??? saying "not a lot of people can understand what it’s like” like no wonder they’re close. It’s a whole different kind of fear
@/ferrarifangirl: THE WAY ISABELLE AND VICTORIA UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER WITHOUT EVEN HAVING TO EXPLAIN IT… that hit way harder than i expected
@/gridgossip: isabelle casually saying "everyone deserves one friend like emilie" has me SOBBING at 3pm on a Monday
@/gridgossip: new theory: what if she’s been cat-sitting Max’s cats this whole time and we’ve just been clowns not seeing it
@/p1princess: what if the cats always knew…what if sassy and jimmy were the REAL first ones to approve of belle
@/redbullracingwives: charles not letting isabelle borrow his cars is both hilarious and the most big brother energy imaginable
@/honeybadgerenergy: ISABELLE LECLERC DRIVES A VOLVO
not a ferrari
not a lamborghini
a VOLVO
she's actually mothering the entire paddock i fear
@/gridgossip: isabelle leclerc posting a literal MOODBOARD during a casual q&a and it’s everything i want my future house to be
she’s unreal
@/mclarenmischief: her caption was literally "be nice" and then she dropped the most perfect moodboard like it was NOTHING
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