#but you know. But I know. But you know. You know? It's complicated. I know better. I don't. It's just a feeling. You know?

[auriidae]

last night i had the strangest dream that you knew me too.

[radenajeng]

Older Boyfriend Jeongin

Tags: idol!jeongin, female!reader, hurt/comfort, emotional maturity, mild age gap, reader is early legal age, reader is NOT minor.

A/N : English is not my first language, and this is my first time writing something like this (idek what writing style is this the hell) but i hope you enjoy.

He’s known as the maknae on top. Everyone treats him a little differently. He gets to eat first, gets extra turns in games, and when he messes up, people just laugh it off.

They coddle him, tease him, ruffle his hair like he’s still the youngest of them all.

And most days, he doesn’t really mind.

But you know a different side of Jeongin. The one who doesn’t ask for special treatment. The one who doesn't act like the baby. The one who knows how to show up for someone. Quietly, consistently, like it’s second nature.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who doesn’t post you, doesn’t flaunt you. But always has a hair clip stuck in his bag strap, a playlist titled like a love letter, and an emoji that represents you in every description of his posts just so people know he's not single.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who never shows you to the world, but introduces you to his family and members with his arms around your waist, smiling so wide his eyes disappear into crescents.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who is not only say “i love you”, but adjusts your seatbelt, charges your phone, walks you to your door, carrying your purse around like second nature.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who plays tough with the members, rolls his eyes at their teasing, shoves Hyunjin off the couch for being too dramatic, but he lets you lie on his chest until his arm goes numb. Lets you take his hoodie even when it's his favorite. Lets you in.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who still gets shy around you sometimes. who bites the inside of his cheek when you compliment him, and pretends to scroll through his phone when your head rests on his shoulder.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who remembers the exact way you breathe when you're overwhelmed. who answers late-night calls with a voice low and steady, whispers “take your time” instead of “what’s wrong?”

olderboyfriend!jeongin who doesn’t talk over you when you’re mad. He waits, lets you finish every word, every sigh, every silence.

He doesn’t try to win.

He tries to understand.

So when you snap — sharp words, a crack in your voice, something bitter you instantly regret — he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t fight back.

He just looks at you with that quiet, steady gaze that makes you feel both too much and never too little.

Then he breathes in, slow and careful, like he's afraid anything louder might hurt you more.

"i know you didn’t mean all that," he says, voice low.

"but even if you did, i’m not going to stop showing up."

And maybe that’s what gets you.

Not the apology. not the patience.

But the fact that he stays.

Even when you push.

Even when you're not sure you deserve it.

He stays.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who listens quietly when you say sorry. who pulls you into a hug before you can say more, tucks your head into his chest and whispers, “we’re okay.”

olderboyfriend!jeongin who lets you be messy, sharp, complicated, whatever it is that shapes your personality — and never once makes you feel hard to love. Because he knows love isn’t about perfection.

It’s about staying. Even when it’s not easy.

—————

©radenajeng, June 2025.

[haru-kuneko]

This! I just couldn't describe it back when I was younger but it reminds me of why it rubs me the wrong way when adults say "You'll understand when you're older", "You're too young to think about that" or "Not everyone will understand you so just keep quiet to avoid drama."

Instead of trying to help kids understand consent and teach about their lived experiences with them as a cautionary tale, the parents treat them like they're mindless toddlers who can't think for themselves and understand the real world. This is why many kids often get taken advantage of; they're never taught how they can fend for themselves.

I know it can be uncomfortable to talk about but if I were the adult and the kid is already at the proper age (like they're already 16-17) where they're going to be exposed to stuff like how to set boundaries in relationships and knowing their rights, I'd take time to explain how they can protect themselves and deal with complicated situations.

TW: Pedophilia

Teenagers are rarely taught the reason why they can't consent to sex with adults.

And that's because teaching them that would completely unravel our coercion-based society.

It can be difficult to explain in detail the exact reason and all the specifics in a way that they will understand. But the simplest way to phrase it is that in some cases, even when someone agrees to something and even when they appear enthusiastic about it, there's too much of a power imbalance that it's no different than forcing them. Also, having power and being abusive doesn't require a conscious expectation to be obeyed.

Imagine a world in which every teenager understood that and was easily able to call out anyone who tried to convince them otherwise.

They'd know that there's no such thing as an employee consenting to working for a poverty wage, working in unsafe conditions, working long hours, or working without taking breaks. They'd know that there's no such thing as consenting to paying a bank overdraft fee. They'd know that there's no such thing as consenting to student loan debt. They'd know that there's no such thing as consenting to medical bills. They'd know that there's no such thing as consenting to generating profit for banks or landlords in order to have a place to live and being evicted or foreclosed when you lose your source of income. They'd know that there's no such thing as consenting to a police search. They'd know that there's no such thing as a child who's okay with their parents spanking them. They'd know that being dependent on someone does not mean that you can never criticize them. They'd know that if it's considered abusive to simply play along when someone obeys, then it has to be much more abusive to actively expect to be obeyed, which many adults do to them.

And people who benefit from a society based on coercion masquerading as freedom wouldn't like that.

So instead, teenagers are taught something dismissive. They're taught that what they want doesn't matter. They're taught that they're too young to know what love is. They're taught "it's the law". They're taught things that are insulting to their intelligence, which they'll naturally rebel against.

[sweetshuga]

𝑾𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓?

𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒕

ⓘ 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕! ⋆ pure filth ⋆ best friends ⋆ sexual tension ⋆ pet names ⋆ sleepover gone wrong (or right) ⋆ threesome (no incest—and please sybau if you think ts is incest) ⋆ eiffel tower ⋆ dacryphilia ⋆ blowjob ⋆ face fucking ⋆ raw doggin’ ⋆ backshots ⋆ spanking ⋆ degradation & praise kink + more.

⟢ Wanna chat with their bot? Well, it seems you’re in luck! @cupiidkills made one! «link»

"Who would you rather sleep with? Me? Or Matt?" Chris asked, grinning from ear to ear, probably finding his own question to be quite amusing.

Well. It was funny. Hilarious even.

The fact that you’d choose both without hesitation was what made it hilarious. But you couldn’t say that out loud of course.

You blinked at him, then looked at Matt, before looking back at Chris—your eyes flickering between the two brothers. You let out a small laugh, too shaky to be one of amusement. More nervous than anything.

"Don’t joke about shit like that–"

You tried to dismiss it. But Matt spoke before you could say anything else.

"We’re serious," he said. "Me or Chris?"

You shifted in your seat, torn between telling them the truth and making it awkward or keeping it to yourself and laughing it off.

After some inner debate, you finally answered the question. "Both."

Matt and Chris barely heard what you said because of how quiet you were. A "huh?" leaving them both as they stared at you with confused expressions.

You looked down at your lap, face burning as you repeated yourself. Louder this time. "Both. I’d choose both."

Their teasing smirks faltered, replaced by genuine surprise, as if they couldn’t believe you actually answered sincerely. They probably thought you’d tell them to fuck off.

Chris cleared his throat and mumbled under his breath. "Well, that’s..." he trailed off, sharing a look with Matt before looking back at you with an unreadable expression. "You serious?"

You stood up suddenly, unable to handle the inevitable confrontation and the aftermath of your words. "I’m going to the bathroom." You mumbled and quickly walked out of the room before they could stop you.

A few minutes later, you walked back into Matt’s room, steeling yourself for the questions.

But none of them spoke when you entered. Their blue orbs bore into you with an intensity that had you feeling like you couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly, Matt spoke, his voice coming out huskier and deeper than usual. "Were you being serious when you said you’d do both of us?"

The seriousness in his voice made all the jokes you could’ve used die in your throat, causing you to go speechless for a second. Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of the water, no sound coming out despite your best efforts.

You closed your mouth, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. You didn’t know what to say. Were you supposed to say yes? Or no? You couldn’t tell what they were thinking—their expressions were too complicated to read.

"Yeah." You whispered, opting to be truthful.

Although you finally found your voice it was too quiet for them to take as a proper answer.

"Hm..." Chris murmured, his eyes searching your face.

A slow smirk crept onto his face, his eyes darkening with something that resembled... desire?

No. You’re probably just imagining it. There’s no way–

"Why are you just standing there? Aren’t you gonna sit?"

Chris’s teasing words made your mind go blank. You cursed internally, only now realizing how stupid you looked standing by the door and fidgeting like an idiot.

"Ye-yeah, I was about to sit." You wanted to jump into a rabbit hole like Alice and disappear into the wonderland the moment that stutter left your lips.

God, you probably sounded so nervous.

"You sound nervous. Why is that?" Matt questioned, nailing the hammer to the head. His eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners as he smirked, mirroring Chris’s expression.

You could almost hear the laughter in Matt’s voice, causing you to cringe, knowing how you’re acting but unable to be normal after that.

"It’s nothing. Let’s continue playing." You tried to lighten the tension in the room, but Matt and Chris didn’t let you.

"You sure?" Chris chuckled.

What did he mean by that?

"What? I am sure." You blinked, trying to gulp down the words that would ruin your friendship for sure.

You wanted them both. You always have. You imagined their hands on you, their lips brushing your skin, their intoxicating scents taking over your senses as they use you–

Stop it. What the fuck are you thinking?

You wanted to bang your head against the wall until it knocked some sense into you. You couldn’t be thinking such things about them. You’ve been friends forever. What you had was too precious to trade for something as stupid as lust.

But the room felt hotter the more you played. The questions got more and more explicit. Each one so close to breaking the fragile wall you had built to keep the friendship from turning into something else.

Maybe it was just your imagination but the brothers seemed to be sitting a lot closer to you than they were before. Their arms brushed against yours each time they moved. Their bodies were so close—enough for your head to fog from the smell of their colognes mixing together.

"Hey." Chris whispered, putting his hand on your shoulder to get your attention. His voice was too close to your ear for comfort, causing a shudder to run down your spine. The hand on your shoulder made the skin there burn hot.

"Yeah?" You said, trying your best to keep your voice steady as you turned your head towards Chris.

You hoped he didn’t notice the slight hitch in your breath when you spoke. But unfortunately for you, the smirk on his face told you everything you didn’t want to hear.

"You’re acting weird. All stiff and shit. You sure you’re okay?" He chuckled, slowly sliding his hand down your arm before dropping it back to his lap.

You didn’t know if he was doing it on purpose or not. But one thing was for sure—you were getting turned on.

Matt noticed the exchange and let out a short snort.

"You do look stiff. Almost like you’re..." Matt trailed off, obviously on purpose. He was teasing you, leaving your head swirling with thoughts on what he was implying. And he liked the way your eyes widened by a fraction, panic crossing your face.

After an hour full of subtle teasing remarks and suffocating tension, you couldn’t take it anymore. You realized they wanted you to word it out. Otherwise, you’d be forever sandwiched between the two brunettes who obviously had no intention of making the first move.

With a slow sigh, you began. "Why are you two acting like this?"

They tensed briefly at your sudden question, but they didn’t look the least bit nervous at you calling them out. Instead, it felt as if they were waiting for you to speak up on their childish game.

"What are you talking about?" Matt laughed softly.

Which was followed by Chris’s amused words. "We’re acting like what?"

They were playing you like an idiot. Unraveling you bit by bit until you were on the verge of insanity from the amount of tension coiling around you.

"You’re acting like, like, you’re making fun of me." You mumbled, your voice quieter than you wanted it to be as you looked down at your lap.

You sighed internally. They’re for sure going to think you’re upset.

But you couldn't help it. Doubt had begun to spread through your head like a wildfire. What if they were teasing you because you looked stupid? God, you probably did look stupid. And maybe you were stupid. Stupid to think they’d ever feel anything more.

Chris and Matt noticed as you got more and more lost in thought. And they knew you were overthinking it. You always did.

The spark in the room dimmed and the tension vaporized. Their teasing smirks and the crinkle of amusement in the corners of their eyes disappeared, replaced with much softer, tender expressions.

You misunderstood them and they couldn’t let you do that.

"Hey," Chris’s voice was a lot softer than before, gently holding your arm and leaning his head down to get you to look at him.

"We weren’t making fun of you." Matt said sincerely, his soft gaze set on yours. "Look at me. You trust us right? We’d never make fun of you."

You sighed softly. "I know. I dunno why I thought that."

You felt even more stupid. You just made the atmosphere depressing and the knowledge made you want to throttle your own self.

"It’s fine-"

"Don’t lie." Chris cut you off. "We’ll make it up for you."

You raised an eyebrow. "Make up for what? You didn’t do anything wrong. Even if you did, how are you gonna make up for it?"

They exchanged a look, something unreadable passing between them before they both looked at you.

"You’ll see."

The back of Matt’s fingers caressed your rosy cheek, wiping away the fat tear rolling down it. Your lips were red and parted, a thick and sticky string of saliva connecting your front teeth to your bottom lip.

"Feels too good?" He asked, knowing the pleasure was messing with your head, causing you to lose coherency and the ability to talk without your words morphing into moans.

Your eyes glazed over and you barely kept them from rolling back. The feeling of Chris’s thick tip dragging across that spongy spot inside your walls had you gripping him like a vice, eliciting muttered curses from him.

A slap, sharp and loud, came on your already flushed ass, the skin reddening even more. A soft groan left Chris when he saw the way your ass recoiled and bounced against his hips, the wet smacking sounds going straight to his dick.

"You look so pretty." Matt murmured, wiping the drool that was beginning to leak down the side of your lips with his thumb, smudging it across your bottom lip instead.

"And y’feel so fucking good." Chris added, grunting in between.

Matt straightened up, his knees digging into the mattress in front of your hands as he gripped the base of his fat cock. The tip was red and swollen, veins bulging and throbbing along the shaft.

He brushed the tip of his cock across your lips, making them glisten with precum. He could feel his dick twitch in his hand at the sight and proximity of your face.

"Open up, sweetheart. Let me feel you wrapped around me."

You complied without another word from Matt, opening your mouth wide to accommodate his thick head. Your lips stretched around his girth and the sweet, musky scent of him filled your nostrils.

Chris’s fingers dug into your hips, enough to leave marks, as he picked up pace. His hips slapped against your ass with loud smacks and the wet squelches of his hefty length plowing in and out of you filled the room alongside the creaking of the bed and your muffled moans.

Matt’s eyelids fluttered, his eyes closing in pleasure as you began to move your lips along his shaft, taking him deep enough for the tip to repeatedly hit the back of your throat.

Your eyes watered from the pleasure Chris was giving you and the feeling of Matt’s cock stuffing your mouth full. Your moans vibrated around Matt’s length—causing him to throw his head back in pleasure—as Chris fucked you harder and faster.

"Fuuuck-- take it... Take us both like the good fucking girl you are."

Matt’s breathless, husky voice calling you a good girl had you clenching hard around Chris, making the brunette groan behind you. His hand came down on your ass, the sudden sharp sting causing you to jolt forward and take more of Matt, resulting in you gagging.

A taunting chuckle came from behind you. "Look at you gagging on his dick like a whore."

The difference between Matt’s sweet praises and Chris’s degrading words had your head spinning. Your stomach muscles contracted, thighs trembling and body shuddering, as the coils in your abdomen drew tighter with each snap of Chris’s hips.

"Close?" Chris taunted, feeling your pussy flutter around his pistoning length. "God... you’ve such a greedy fucking pussy." He let out a breathy chuckle. "Look at her wrapped around me all snug and tight like she don’t want me out."

Matt groaned lowly, his hips beginning to move. He ground his pelvis against your face each time, shoving his cock down your throat, making sure you feel every thick inch of him.

You choked and gagged, getting used as if you were his own personal fleshlight. All while Chris was fucking you so hard you were being jolted forward repeatedly. Each time Chris’s hips connected with your ass, you deep throated Matt.

This was not how you thought they would "make it up" to you.

Your whole body jolted when you felt Chris’s fingers rub your clit in quick circles, making you moan loudly around Matt’s shaft. The vibrations were fucking exquisite. Enough to have Matt biting his lips to keep himself from moaning loudly in pleasure.

It wasn’t long before you felt your body unravel and pleasure shot through you, making your pussy clench and unclench rhythmically around Chris.

Heavy breathing filled the room. The earlier creaking of the bed and noises of pleasure were replaced with sounds of exhaustion and exertion.

You were all sprawled on the bed, completely drained after who knows how many rounds. Hell, the sky was already beginning to turn a few shades lighter.

Panting softly, Chris wrapped an arm around your middle, spooning you from behind. "We should do that again." Chris murmured softly.

"That line is giving me flashbacks I don’t wanna have." Matt mumbled, his arm covering his eyes as his chest heaved with deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

Chris burst out laughing, burying his face in your nape as he giggled. "Matt, shut uup..."

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆.ᐟ | 𝒘𝒄 – 𝟐.𝟐 𝒌 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

Isa’s rambling ۶ৎ Chat, I guess I’m back...? I dunno if I am. See, I had to add that line. Also, it’s been sooo long since I wrote a chratt fic I almost forgot how to write a threesome. (I feel like I lowkey failed but it’s whatever). And I also cut the smut short ’cause I was starting to get laaazy.

Anyway, the amount of different fic layouts I have is overwhelming me but yeah... I can’t part with any of them.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒈𝒂

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Yell at Me - Dr. Jack Abbot x resident!reader

Summary: 2.7k words. You never expected your attending to suddenly end your years-long secret fling without warning. Now you’re both dealing with the fallout.

Warnings: 18+ content. No explicit smut, but mdni anyway please. Age gap. Lots of colorful language lmao. Angst, angst, and more angst. Miscommunication (I hate it). Yearning. Trust the process and stick around to the end pls

a/n: I was listening to “undressed” by sombr in the shower last night and the lyrics “I don't want the children of another man / To have the eyes of the girl I won't forget” are now imprinted in my brain. I wrote this during the commercial breaks of last night’s episode of Love Island USA and this morning. Enjoy!

Master list | Divider credit!

The Pitt feels sterile and cold at this time of night. It’s slow. Quiet, even. But no one dares to utter the words. Not even Doctor Shen—not after the absolute reaming Doctor Ellis dealt him once the Pitt Fest dust settled. There’s enough action to keep you from falling asleep, but there’s enough lulls to allow you time to talk with your coworkers while you wait for imaging and lab results to come back for your patients.

Even on nights like tonight, Doctor Abbot doesn’t join in on the drama. But, he hears bits and pieces of the hospital’s gossip in passing. He’s not intentionally eavesdropping in the clean utility room, but he could pick your voice out in the loudest crowd and spot your face in any room. The L-shape of the closet prevents you from noticing him quietly gathering supplies while you gossip at a low volume with another resident at the other end, hidden from view.

“We’ve gone on a couple dates,” you admit to your fellow R4. Abbot can hear the smile in your voice and it makes him pause. After working in trauma medicine for years, he has a stomach of steel. But the insinuation of your admission makes him queasy.

He didn’t have any right to feel any type of way—he knew that.  You were never exclusive, it’s been months since you fooled around together, and he was the one who ended things. But it still hurt.

Abbot recognizes the other R4’s voice as Doctor Ellis. Your next words hit him like a sucker punch in the gut. He swallows heavily around the lump in his throat. He knows he should stop listening, should leave, but he can't move from where his feet are planted.

“I don’t know!” you say giddily when Ellis asks you if it’s anything serious. “I’m honestly not sure if I like him that much. Maybe he’ll grow on me. A slow-burn, if you will.” Ellis deadpans at that. You’ve been seeing this guy for a month and haven’t progressed beyond I think he’s kinda cute ish.

It didn’t compare even slightly to the feverish passion you felt for Abbot. Not that Ellis knew that. Nobody knew about your… situation. Whatever odd iteration of a relationship you shared with Jack existed beyond the bounds of a definition or term besides “it’s complicated.” Moreover, not that your feelings for your attending mattered. He’d never want you like that, he’d made that very clear the same night you were about to open up about your true feelings for him.

It was like Abbot could sense a shift in the air that night. Like he could feel your heart beating just for him.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.” The words left his mouth simply and short. It sounded smooth, a sharp contrast from the grating feeling clawing up his throat. Abbot couldn’t meet your eyes when he said it.

You pulled his bed sheet to cover your exposed chest. He spent that night—and countless other nights—leaving his mark on hidden parts of you, worshipping your breasts like they were the only altar he believed in.

“What?” you asked, lips parted in shock. Your post orgasmic haze was abruptly broken as a sinking feeling settled in your chest. Certainly you must’ve heard him wrong, you thought. You hoped.

But he doubled down. He repeated his words. This time, he willed himself to meet your eyes. His face was stoney, like he’d already detached and distanced himself. Jack was a horrible liar, but he was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t fight or press for any more details. You just nodded around the lump in your throat.

You got out of his bed, taking the sheet with you, wrapped around your vulnerable frame. You couldn’t bear for him to see you naked, bare just for him, ever again.

The clothes you wore over to his apartment with the sole intention of him peeling them off your body were scattered across his bedroom floor. Your leggings, his t-shirt, his hoodie. You pulled the leggings on slowly and didn’t rush. You had to move slowly to prevent the tears weighing on your lower lashes from pouring down your face. Maybe it was pride, or spite, or hurt, or maybe all three, but you refused to let him see you cry.

You let your eyes drift around Jack’s room. You’d spent dozens of nights there in his arms, in his shower, on his counters and couch and lap, but you knew then it was the last time you’d ever see his bedroom. You’re not sure why you did it, one last thorough scan of the room, committing it as a masochistic memory.

Abbot watched you silently. He had since pulled on his own sweatpants, remaining shirtless. Even then, you couldn’t resist him. The attending had just rejected you in the cruelest way possible, and you still couldn’t steal your eyes from his defined chest.

You left his clothes on the floor and padded over to his dresser, the one he’d cleaned out a drawer for you in. You pulled on a dark shirt, thinking that maybe the fabric would hide the heavy tears you knew you’d shed on the drive home, and grabbed the rest of your belongings from the drawer. Whatever you couldn’t carry in your arms, you cut as a loss.

“Goodbye, Doctor Abbot,” you said in his hallway outside the door, bordering on apathetic. You didn’t have the energy to say it through gritted teeth.

‘Doctor Abbot’ was reserved for the Pitt. You never called him by his professional title outside of work, and you hadn’t for a while. You were respectful and professional at the hospital, but at home? In his bed? He was Jack to you.

Now, you looked at him like he was about to be no one to you.

You stood just beyond the threshold, another one you knew you’d never cross again. Jack had the decency to walk you to the door, even though it killed him to do so. When his eyes finally met your face, he saw the tears you couldn’t hold back, heavy in your eyes but not yet spilled. He saw how you bit your lip to keep it from trembling.

You left without ceremony. Jack stood in his open doorway for a while, watching your form retreat until you turned the corner and were gone from his view. He could hear blood rushing in his ears and he became acutely aware of his involuntary, erratic inhales and shaky exhales. The sobs wracked your body the second your car door was shut. It probably wasn’t safe for you to drive home with tears blurring your vision and your rib cage on the verge of cracking open, but you had little regard for anything in that moment.

Hours later, you laid in your bed staring at the ceiling. A world apart, Abbot was doing the same in his apartment that felt cold without you in it.

The next shift, you put anything Jack had left at your apartment over the past couple of years; hoodies, sweatpants, socks and underwear that you wore more often than he did in his locker. Part of him wanted you to keep it all. He liked knowing that your soft skin was wrapped up in his clothes. But you couldn’t bear to look at them, much less wear any of it, knowing how he tossed you aside after years together, albeit in secret.

None of it mattered now.

Doctor Abbot is roughly pulled back to the present when your next words stop him cold.

“But he seems like good Dad material,” you shrug and Ellis raises her eyebrows. You’re a woman of science, so you know your eggs aren’t drying up anytime soon, but that doesn’t mean you don’t still feel the pressure to think about the future, to family plan. Jack hears ringing in his ears, like he’s back overseas again and he’s narrowly escaped an explosion.

You had talked about what you wanted in the future in between pillow talk with Jack. A white picket fence, two or three kids, and an SUV, but definitely not a minivan. But it was always hypothetical, or so he thought. Jack didn’t know about the locked list in your notes app; he didn’t know that “Jack” was listed as one of the names under the “baby names for boys” heading. The goals you shared with him softly in bed were always maybes, none of which specifically included Jack.

But now? The mere thought of another man’s children with your eyes? The ones that haunted him for months—every time he closed his eyes or met your gaze from across the room in a trauma bay—that he was sure he’d never forget? It made him sick in a way he hadn’t felt since that night months ago.

Abbot didn’t realize how tight his white knuckle grip was until the saline flush’s wrapper popped in his hand from the pressure.

He doesn’t pause for any time to think, he just acts, as if on instinct.

He rounds the corner with purpose, making you blush as you realize he’d probably heard at least part of your conversation.

“Would you excuse us please, I need to show Doctor YLN something.” He grabs your hand and pulls you away from the conversation, not waiting for Doctor Ellis’s response. He’s tugging you in the opposite direction of patient rooms, moving so swiftly through the hallways that you struggle to get your bearings.

“Jack, what- Doctor Abbot, I mean, where are we going?” you ask flustered, startled by his interruption and sudden behavior.

Your question is answered when he tests the door handle of an on-call room, just beyond any areas of regular foot traffic, before ushering you both inside. The resolute click of the door’s lock sounds like a bullet echoing in the empty room.

“What the hell are you doing?” You’re beyond confused. It dawns on you that this is the first time you and Abbot have been alone since he kicked you out in the middle of the night with no remorse.

“Don’t go out with him.” Jack’s jaw is set tight and his chest moves unsteady as he looks, no, stares into your soul.

“What?”

“Don’t go out on a date with him.” The command sounds like a plea. Jack spits the word him with vitriol, though it’s not directed at you.

“Jack-” you start, but Abbot interrupts you by saying your name. Any edge in his tone is gone. He realizes it’s the first time he’s been able to call you by your first name in months.

“Please.” He’s begging. The motherfucker actually has the audacity to beg you to do anything, as if he wasn’t the one that threw you out like trash.

“No.” Your face set seriously, hardening and bordering on cold, only held back by the white hot rage you felt. You had slowly started to patch up your broken heart in past few months and Jack was dangerously close to undoing all that work.

“You made it incredibly clear that you don’t want any future with me, so you don’t get to be upset, or feel anything when I move on. When I try to have a life outside of this hospital.” You poke his firm chest and quickly recoil at the spark you feel when you come in contact with him for the first time in too long.

It’s fair. Jack knows that.

You’re upset and it’s manifesting in anger. Anger that Abbot deserves to have unleashed upon him. It’s long overdue. You never really got to hash it out—you just went straight to clocking in for your shifts, ignoring the energy drinks he left in your locker as a pathetic peace offering and promptly throwing them in the garbage until Doctor Abbot had spent well over a hundred dollars on your preferred caffeine, and only speaking to him when absolutely necessary.

Doctor Abbot’s face twists like he’s in pain. His jaw moves like he’s fighting the words falling from his lips.

“I still care about you,” he admits lowly. You scoff.

“That’s fucking rich.” Laughter bubbles past your lips, but there’s no humor in it. Behind the locked on-call room door, any semblance of professionalism is gone. Abbot doesn’t dare reprimand you for your colorful language.

But he’s only human, and your reaction gets a rise out of him.

“You think I wanted to end… this?” Abbot is exasperated and waves a head between your tense bodies, tight with frustration. He comes up short for a term to describe the relationship that evaded labels.

Another scoff.

“Well, you explicitly told me you didn’t want me anymore while I was naked in your fucking bed, so yeah, I’d say you absolutely wanted to end our… situation,” you spit, also struggling to define your years-long arrangement with your attending.

The heels of Jack’s palms are pressed against his tightly shut eyes, like he’s trying to will away a migraine or Myrna. He mumbles something you can’t hear. You’ve long since run out of patience and grace, not that you had much in the first place.

“Spit it out, Jack. I’ve got patients to see. I don’t have time for your fucking mumbling.” A rage burns in you that Abbot has never witnessed, much less been on the receiving end of.

Maybe you’re just being mean now, but maybe you just don’t care. The love you had for Jack never really left. It just… atrophied. Then turned bitter and black and blue, like a bruise that never goes away.

Abbot punched the damn bruise.

“I did it to protect you!” Abbot shouts, no longer caring whether or not the four walls are soundproof. His graying curls are tousled and he’s got a wild look in his eyes. His heart is damn near beating out of his chest. Jack feels like a powder keg and you’re standing over him with a tank of gasoline and a lighter.

Your eyes narrow. Now he’s really pissing you off.

“Protect me?” you seethe. “When the hell did I ever ask you to do that?” Your hands are flying wildly as you talk. You’re glad the on-call rooms don’t have windows.

Abbot presses his lips into a thin line. You didn’t ask. You never asked for anything, always giving to others until you didn’t have anything left for yourself. But Jack wanted to give you the world.

He admires how hardworking you are. You outpace everyone in your cohort by far, but Doctor Abbot knew if anyone found out about your relationship they’d just assumed you slept your way through residency. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Abbot is harder on you than any of the other students because he knows how much potential you hold. Hell, there were some days he thought you were a better doctor than him. Nobody gets to be the top candidate for the newest junior attending position without working their ass off.

He made the decision to break things off—to save your career—so you wouldn’t have to.

He cut it off, and broke both of your hearts in the process, so that you could focus on your career and secure your well-earned spot as a junior attending. Without distractions. Without Jack.

Abbot’s mind is going a million miles an hour. He doesn’t realize all his racing thoughts had spilled out loud until he looks at you.

Silent. Dumbfounded. Still.

Your hands rest by your side, tense. Like they don’t know what to do if they’re not waving through the air, your anger and passion directed at your current mentor, former lover, and eternal pain in your ass.

The silence breaks when both of your pagers beep simultaneously. An incoming trauma alert is announced over the hospital’s PA system.

There was still a sharpness to you, but some of it had softened around the edges. The fire in your eyes when Jack held your stare with his was less of a glare now.

“We are not done talking. You are going to buy me breakfast and we’re going to talk this out like fucking adults, Jack,” you point at him with squinted eyes before turning on your heel. You don’t hold the door open for the attending, but you let it swing wide enough so that it won’t hit him on his way out.

“Yes, Doctor.” Abbot agrees, following your lead back into the belly of the Pitt. He places his palm on the small of your back on instinct. When you don’t pull away, Jack feels hopeful for the first time in months.

a/n: blah blah blah then they have nasty explosive amazing makeup sex. The end.

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED!

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[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index

✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then���

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

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[dovand]

if this resonates with you. if your hair gets weird and frizzy when you brush it. look at me. when you next wash your hair—get it nice and wet, lather it up in conditioner, and comb it through wet. you can get plastic brushes that can live in the shower, or you can use a wide-tooth comb, or you can use your fingers. it will cling to itself, it will start to curl naturally. rinse out the conditioner (it doesn't need to be 100 percent out*). if you have a hair oil (like argan oil or coconut), apply it once you're out of the shower. if you're dry-brushing your hair/shampooing it regularly/sleeping on a cotton pillowcase/wearing hats or hoods/straightening it, your hair is probably pretty dry. find an old t shirt or something similarly soft (and not terrycloth, ie normal towel material) and gently scrunch your hair to dry it. if you're able, a silk pillowcase or sleeping cap or even just a folded-up silk scarf will keep your hair from drying out too much during the night. if you have long hair, don't tie it up tightly while wet—it will curl as it dries and accrue tension and probably break. tie it loosely or not at all. if you want it out of your face, hair clips are your new best friend. there are 1 million fancy, often expensive hair products** and some of them will work but some of them will just be fancy and overpriced. you don't need a super complicated routine—just some patience, an awareness of how curly hair is different to straight, a generous amount of conditioner, and the time to comb it through in the shower. your hair is NOT difficult, it is NOT bad, it is just DIFFERENT.

*is my understanding, anyway. i'm still not an expert so, grain of salt. i try not to fully rinse it out because then my hair just gets dry again but YMMV

**re hair products: argan oil and coconut oil are common ingredients, and quite labour-intensive to manufacture, hence the price. there's a spreadsheet on r/curlygirl of products if you want, but it's mostly US-based last i checked. there are loads of stupid-fancy products with fancy-sounding marketing and lots of adjectives (nourishing! organic! rejuvenating!) but you don't necessarily need anything special. the most important thing, i find, is some nice oil—you can use normie shampoo and conditioner, do your combing through, and then oil your hair afterwards to keep it nice and hydrated. you don't need to finger-curl but you can. (if you have chronic wrist pain, finger-curling might exacerbate it)

OH ALSO—find a hairdresser who knows how to cut curly hair!!!!! if you're in the US this will probably be more achievable on account of there being more Black people—find a Black hairdresser or someone in a Black area! if you're not in the US/somewhere w a Black population it will likely be more difficult but don't be afraid to shop around a bit to find someone who understands how to cut curls. it is worth it.

somewhere out there right now is a kid with curly hair being raised by people who have wavy hair at best and those people are giving them 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner and telling them to dry brush it. and that kid is gonna spend all of middle school and high school hating their hair and moping over the flat iron. they're being told right now that if they don't dry-brush their curl pattern into oblivion every morning it means they're unkempt and gross even though they naturally have the kind of ringlets that a thousand bridezillas would commit horrible murders for every june. it's happening right now it's an absolute epidemic and a tragedy every time

[demie90s]

Oops?

Georgia Amoore x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: You pull up courtside in sweats with your bestie, fresh off a “break” with your maybe-ex.

Genre: Flirty, Slow Burn, Post-Break Tension

Word Count: ~ 1.2k

Warnings: Light cursing, flirtation, implied relationship drama

The seats were too close for how unserious we looked.

Me and my friend Paris pulled up to the Mystics vs Sky game dressed like we rolled straight out of a TikTok live and into these courtside seats. Matching sweats, no bras, hair barely brushed, and candy stashed in my Louis tote like we were sneaking snacks into a movie.

“I don’t even know how you got these seats,” I said, shoving another watermelon Sour Patch in my mouth and chewing slow.

Paris giggled, popping her gum with the side of her tongue. “Girl, I told you. Derrick owed me somethin’. Said I been ‘good.’” She did air quotes and rolled her eyes. “Like… what does that even mean?”

I blinked. “It means next time, ask for Bora Bora.”

“Girllll you know he too old for me to explain that.”

“…hoe… find a way.”

We both started laughing like we weren’t two grown women being recorded on five different iPhones. The girls behind us were whispering, and I could already tell the clip was gonna end up on Twitter: “not her at a whole WNBA game dressed like it’s pajama day 😭😭😭” — yeah, and still the finest in the room.

I reached over and grabbed another handful of Paris’s candy.

“Damn.”

“You should’ve brought your own.”

“I did—you just ate mine first.”

I rolled my eyes, legs stretched, arm slung across the back of the seat. “Bitch be grateful. I’m snack taxin’. You lucky I ain’t eat ya whole purse.”

The camera panned past us once or twice, probably thinking we were girlfriends. Happens all the time. I didn’t mind. The real issue was who wasn’t here.

She.

The girl I was supposedly on a break from. The same girl who used to sit next to me at these games in all her polished, too-perfect glory. And the same girl Georgia Amoore definitely knew.

Whether they got along was complicated. They smiled in public—took little pictures, tapped phones, gave each other compliments that sounded like insults. Real cordial. But Georgia? Georgia had always had that look in her eye.

Like she been waiting. Like she knew something my girlfriend didn’t. Like the moment I was up for grabs, she’d be right there—casual.

When halftime rolled around, there she was.

Walking up with her hair still damp, mouth twisted like she wasn’t doing nothing out the ordinary. No smile, no smirk. Just calm. Like this wasn’t a setup.

I blinked slowly, the Sour Patch mid-chew. Paris’s whole body straightened.

“Bitch,” she whispered. “Why is she—”

“Shhh.” I waved her off like I wasn’t suddenly sitting straighter too.

Georgia didn’t say anything right away. She just brought a jersey—and held it out like she was handing over a receipt.

“Here you go.”

I stared. I knew what this was. The quiet flex. The “I ain’t even tryin’, I just know what I’m doing” energy. Her eyes didn’t leave mine.

I took the jersey with a grin, folding it over my lap like it was a Birkin. “How considerate.”

She nodded. “Figured she wouldn’t mind.”

Paris coughed a laugh into her drink. I didn’t blink.

“You figured right,” I said. “We on a break.”Georgia’s eyes scanned my face, then flicked to the camera crew nearby before she shrugged.

“Breaks don’t mean unavailable.”

“Oh, I know,” I replied, biting my straw. “But you was always real friendly.”

Georgia leaned on the rail beside us, arms crossed, real nonchalant like she didn’t just make me remember the way she smiled at me the first time we met—with her sitting right beside me.

She glanced down at my legs, then back to my face. “You look comfortable.”

I blinked. “That a problem?”

“Nope,” she said, pushing off the rail. “It’s just good to see you without the filter.”

She didn’t mean the Instagram one. I knew it. Paris knew it. Hell, my ex probably knew it too.

Georgia started walking off, turning her head just slightly. “Tell Paris to stop sharin’ her candy. You gon’ eat her outta house and home.”

I sucked my teeth. “Mind your business, Amoore.”

She raised one hand without looking back. “I’m tryin’ to.”

Paris leaned in, gasping. “She’s been waitin’ to risk it all. I felt that.”

I smirked, sliding the jersey into my lap with a little shake. “If she don’t stop playing with me… I’ma start wearing this shit around the house.”

After she walked off, jersey-less and smug as hell, Paris was fanning herself.

“She been plottin’, bitch.”

I didn’t respond. I was too busy pretending not to replay that whole interaction like a TikTok in my head. Because let’s be real—Georgia was always a little too friendly.

Not in a messy way. Not even in a disrespectful way. Just… observant. Quiet. Calculated. Like she didn’t believe in rushing nothing.

Even when my ex was in the room, Georgia would throw those little comments, always under the radar:

“Y’all cute. You sure you not single, though?”

“Damn, I like girls who talk back.”

After the game, me and Paris lingered. Mostly because I was still chewing the last of her candy and she couldn’t find her lip gloss.

That’s when Georgia showed back up—this time in slides and sweats, curls half-dry, and a plastic grocery bag swinging at her side like she’d just picked something up on the way out.

“Y’all still here?” she said, like she didn’t mean to walk straight over.

Paris blinked. “I mean… traffic.”

“Mhmm,” Georgia grinned. Then she looked at me. “You eat yet?”

I blinked slow. “No, but I did steal all her snacks.”

Paris cut in quick: “She really did. That’s not even a joke.”

Georgia tilted her head. “Wanna come get something? I’m grabbing food down the street. No pressure.”

She said it calm. Real nonchalant. Like this wasn’t exactly what she’d been waiting for. Like it wasn’t an opportunity wrapped in lemon pepper and laid out in neon lights.

I looked at Paris. Paris looked at me. We both looked at the bag in Georgia’s hand like it had the answers to life.

Really, what was I supposed to say? I’m on a break. I’m hungry. Georgia She don’t even look pressed. That’s the scariest part.

“Sure,” I said, shrugging like I wasn’t already standing up. “But I’m not sharing.”

Georgia smirked. “I could’ve guessed.”

By the time we slid into the booth at a late-night spot barely holding on with a B-rating in the window, it was clear: this wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a “just friends” moment either.

It was… open-ended.

She passed me a fry without looking. She let Paris go on about Derrick and his bad knees. She asked if I still did streaming. I asked why she played so damn calm.

And somewhere between me stealing her lemon pepper wing and her wiping honey mustard off my lip with her finger, I realized—

My ex ain’t ever had me laughing like this.

Georgia didn’t push. She didn’t ask questions about her. Didn’t even bring her up again. She just existed beside me, calm and easy, like this was always an option.

Like she knew—I’ll wait. But I ain’t waitin’ forever.

I wasn’t gonna say it out loud, but damn… food tastes better when you don’t feel guilty.

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[eeriesilkworm]

Why I think the flashback scene in ST5 is about Lonnie (and Mike and Jonathan's complicated relationship...)

CW: This post discusses potential spoilers and mentions implied abuse (It's about Lonnie, after all...) proceed with caution!

So, we already know about the casting call for a scene featuring 8-year-old Mike and Will, and 13-year-old Jonathan.

I've had multiple thoughts about what this scene could be (so many possibilities!) but after reading a leak regarding this scene, I've finally settled on (an admittedly speculative) theory.

(Of course, not all leaks are accurate, so take this with a grain of salt. And if you’re avoiding spoilers, consider this your cue to stop reading!)

Based on the leak, here’s what we know about the scene so far:

It is not a supernatural or horror-based memory (unlike Will’s 1983 flashbacks of the Upside Down).

It takes place on a school set (likely Hawkins Elementary, which makes sense if they’re reusing sets e.g. Holly Wheeler’s school).

The scene includes multiple parallels to Season 2.

This made me wonder: what Season 2 themes involving Mike, Will, and Jonathan could be echoed here—without needing the supernatural?

It’s difficult to answer because Will’s entire plot in Season 2 revolves around the supernatural. Namely, his possession by the Mind Flayer. But if this flashback isn’t supernatural, maybe the show is drawing on what the Mind Flayer represents: trauma, fear, and abuse.

The Mind Flayer as an allegory for trauma and PTSD

I don’t need to make this section long—most fans are acutely aware that the Mind Flayer is associated with trauma and PTSD. This is supported by the fact that these hauntings begin when the anniversary of Will’s abduction approaches, and that Will is diagnosed with PTSD by Dr Owens. The only thing that people may need convincing of, is that the Mind Flayer (and Upside Down) serve as allegory not just for trauma, but for Will’s specific trauma concerning his father. @greenfiend has an excellent series which delves into this theory.

Will is good at hiding

Season 2 also clearly shows us what Will's primary trauma response is: He initially freezes, be he also runs and hides. The way Will ran and hid behind the stairs on Halloween seemed practiced to me. Like he had done this before. He doesn't panic, and he doesn't keep running. He chooses to close his eyes and hide in a self-soothing position.

In fact, Jonathan himself has said that Will is good at hiding:

He wouldn't know this if he hadn't witnessed Will hiding before. In fact, Will being good at hiding implies he is also difficult to find.

It would make sense for us to see this play out: Will hiding, and Jonathan attempting to find him. And if Mike is also there, and we're paralleling Season 2, then that means...

Mike is good at finding

Despite Will being good at hiding, Season 2 also showed us that Mike is good at finding him. There are three Mind Flayer associated scenes in which Mike is the one to find Will, and in two of them, he's also the one who breaks him out of the visions.

He spots him outside the arcade:

He's the first to find him at Halloween: "I couldn't find you!"

And he's the first to find Will outside Hawkins Middle on the field: "I just found him like this!"

The 1979 Theory

If we're able to acknowledge that the Mind Flayer serves as an allegory for trauma and PTSD, then the gates which allowed the Mind Flayer to penetrate Hawkins (and Will by extension) are also relevent.

Interestingly, the first gate was opened by El in 1979. In this flashback—if Mike and Will are aged 8 years old—that means it also takes place in 1979.

I've made a fairly visual (rather than analytical) post about what I think may have happened to Will in 1979 and how it parallels the Hawkins Lab Massacre.

(Content warning: while nothing is explicit, the subject matter involves implied child abuse).

TL;DR: I believe Lonnie’s abuse escalated in 1979, and it marked a significant trauma for Will—one that he likely repressed or fragmented, much like El did with her memories of the massacre. That would make 1979 a foundational year for both of them: the year their “gates” were opened.

Jonathan’s guilt (the Mike vs Jonathan argument leak)

Additonally, there is a leak which claims Mike and Jonathan will get into an argument about Will's safety this season.

If this ends up being true, I think it will feed into this flashback scene as well. Specifically, Jonathan's guilt and possible quiet resentment of Mike.

I say resentment because Jonathan has made it clear that he views Will as his best friend. He also took on a somewhat parental role helping to raise Will, despite only being 4 years older. He likely feels that Will’s safety and wellbeing is his responsibility.

However, the show has also told us that children aren’t always honest with their parents/ family, but they usually tell their friends everything:

Once again, I’ll point to my previous post about 1979, and the fact that I believe there is something concerning Lonnie’s abuse that Mike is somewhat privy to, that Joyce and Jonathan are not. Because Will told Mike things he didn't tell anyone else.

Jonathan on the other hand, is concerned and insecure that Will no longer comes to him when he needs help or advice.

He said so himself in Season 4:

Jonathan also has a track record of not being around when bad things happen to Will—or not being the one to "rescue" him—but Mike usually is:

Will was at Mike's house before he went missing, and Jonathan was supposed to be waiting at home for him. While Jonathan was focused on capturing the Demogorgon, Mike was focused on finding Will.

Will was trick-or-treating with Mike when he was chased by the Mind Flayer, and Jonathan was at a party when he was supposed to be supervising Will. While Jonathan was partying, Mike brought Will home to his place.

When Will was possessed by the Mind Flayer, Mike stayed by his side the entire time, while Jonathan met with Murray to expose the Hawkins Lab scandal.

It was Mike's memory of meeting Will for the first time that allowed Will to (partially) break out of his possession and use morse code.

None of these are Jonathan's fault, but he has clearly expressed guilt:

If an argument does break out between Mike and Jonathan this season, I think it will be fuelled by exactly that: Jonathan’s quiet resentment and frustration that Mike keeps “butting in,” keeps (trying) to protect Will in ways that Jonathan believes should be his responsibility.

And if emotions run high, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mike snaps back with something like, “Well, I’ve actually been there when Will needed someone. Can you say the same?”

Likewise—Jonathan, who is aware of Will's romantic feelings for Mike—would find that quite rich coming from him, as he's witnessed his brother's heart break.

So for Mike to throw Will’s emotional well-being back in Jonathan’s face? That would cut deep. It would feel hypocritical. And that’s what would make the fight so compelling—two people who love Will deeply, clashing over how to protect him, while unknowingly tearing open wounds they both helped shape.

In this post I point out that Mike and Jonathan's "heart-to-heart" conversations with Will in ST4 were very similar: they were both seeking reconnection with him and expressing concern that they have become distant.

This tension will culminate in Season 5.

How it culminates (my actual theory regarding the flashback)

I speculate that the flashback will show Jonathan arriving at Hawkins Elementary to pick Will up from school, only to find out that Will isn’t where he’s supposed to be. But not because he got lost—because he’s hiding.

The reason why Will is hiding may not be explicitly stated, but it's because he's scared to go home—scared to see Lonnie.

Jonathan will search for Will, but it will likely be Mike who finds him first, or Mike who is already with him (and alerts Jonathan).

Mike also might already have an inkling as to why Will doesn’t want to go home. Because friends don’t lie. Because friends tell each other things they don’t tell parents.

He might even offer to let Will come stay at his place—a callback to what he does years later in Season 2, when he says he’ll "take him home" and brings him to the Wheeler house instead.

This flashback will be seen from either Mike or Jonathan's perspective, as Will's memories of 1979 are likely spotty. It will also highlight the dynamic between the three: Jonathan and Mike are both similarly protective of Will due to their affection for him. But this also creates wounds:

Because Mike feels helpless to protect Will from harm, even if he is always there for him, and Jonathan is frustrated by Will's habit of repressing and hiding his pain.

Well, that's my theory. What do you guys think the flashback scene will be about?

[snail-day]

Yandere homeless! Nanami who lost everything and I mean everything. His savings, his suits, even his precious 401k, gone, all thanks to some guy named Chad on r/wallstreetbets who swore up and down that this new crypto currency was going to the moon. Now the only moon Nanami sees is the one in the mirror when he turns around in your kitchen. Because yes. He’s naked. He had to sell the clothes off his back for “liquidity.”

You’re buying his foreclosed house, technically. Legally. It was listed. It’s yours now. But unfortunately, Nanami has “too much pride” to sleep on the streets, so he’s been squatting in what’s now your home. You show up with the rest of your ragtag crew of clingy, delusional, down-bad men and find him, lounging on a stack of finance magazines, perhaps remnants of his former dignity.

Suguru hisses at him from the stairs like the street cat he pretends to be now. Teeth bared, bald head simmering, little kitten ears from the daiso down the road sticking up. You reach out to pat his soft kitten ears, the only thing that calms him anymore. He grumbles and nuzzles into your palm anyway.

Satoru’s foaming at the mouth in the background. Literally frothing. Maybe it’s rabies. Maybe it’s toothpaste. Or maybe he got into the trash again and found an expired Mentos pack and chewed on it for enrichment. Who knows. Nothing will kill that pup.

Nanami smiles. Calm. Serene. Naked. Stretching like a bride across your mattress. He offers himself to you like a wedding gift. “I can be the husband you never had,” he murmurs, voice deep, as if the lack of fabric makes him more emotionally available.

You try to change the locks.

But they always end up jammed. Broken. Unchanged. And Nanami’s always back inside. Slipping beneath your covers in the middle of the night, ignoring your feral yanderes, his body completely bare, radiating debt and desperate affection.

At this point, you're just grateful he’s willing to babysit the other yanderes while you pack for next week’s trip. It’s not like you can bring them all to visit yandere yak farmer Choso who has offered to give your yanderes a free home in trade for labor. Only if you come visit him first. (And pay off his loans, those yak chew for dogs aren't selling too well these days but he also doesn't understand Amazon. Honestly, it's complicated.)

And you know what?

Somehow, this whole situation is still better than your ex.

[halogenwarrior]

Agreed with nuance. I love these types of arcs sometimes but I think whether the redemption or self-sacrificial hero dying is bad writing or not really depends a lot on the context of the particular character. While most people seem to hate "redemption deaths" no matter the context, I hate them when the clear narrative motivation behind them is that the character doesn't deserve to live or it would be more complicated if they lived and they don't want to deal with that narrative, especially of the character themselves thinks they don't deserve to live and the narrative agrees with them by presenting their death as heartwarming and a fitting end/the best end a character could have after what they did (and unfortunately this is most of them in fiction). And especially if the thing they are atoning for really has nothing to do with any kind of selfishness or cowardice and in fact they were the "loyal to a cause above their own lives" type even pre-redemption. However I think it can work when their arc is about being selfish or cowardly, not being willing to give up even a little happiness or power or money for other people (and importantly in no way thinks they deserve death even when they atone), in which case giving up their very life can be the most impactful thing they could narratively do to show how they've changed. Or when they very much want to live but it's not the redemption that kills them but a "tragic hero" arc where the consequences of their flaws and mistakes do them in in a way that's presented as cathartic but not fundamentally deserved and they are able to have some realization of their wrongdoing/attempt to do good on the inevitable way out. Or if they are suicidal and think they deserve death but the narrative doesn't agree with them and their death when it happens is framed as tragically unnecessary rather than agreeing that it's a fitting ending. But I feel like this nuance gets lost with the "redemption deaths are bad no matter what" takes you usually see on this website.

And likewise with the self-sacrificial hero version, I sometimes love the trope of them living I'm a sucker for a good story about a suicidal character finding through hard struggle a reason to live, but if it's done wrong it can come across as protagonist-centric morality; if the character doesn't come off as suicidal but just doing the rational utilitarian thing in valuing a few or many others over their own life, but the narrative keeps criticizing them for that because don't they know they are the main character, so their life is more important than all of those NPCs? Especially if lots of other characters die including self-sacrifices in the story without being saved and it's only the main character who gets spared like this. While finding some contrived way to let said "NPCs" live anyway so they don't have to actually deal with the moral implications in implying the protagonist's life is more important than everyone else's.

Edit: so I think the best ways to pull off the "self-sacrificial hero learns to be less like that and lives" version is either to show the character's suicidal motivation distorts their judgments making them jump to martyrdom when they would objectively be able to do more good alive even if it's not as flashy and romantic (as opposed to self-sacrificing being the entirely rational choice every time), or show that the same attitude that leads to wanting to sacrifice themselves leaves to distortion of judgment in other ways (other kinds of self-effacing, or alternatively distancing themselves from others and having a sense of superiority as the self-sacrificing hero and devaluing others' lives for their goal as well, for example), or even both.

i love when characters don't get to die

[aingeal98]

The fun thing about Cass not appearing much in the og Birds of Prey while Babs is literally parenting her over in Batgirl at the same time is that it creates a potential situation where Barbara can be ranting to Ted or Jason Bard about how this damn kid won't eat their veggies because they just want burgers instead and keeps performing risky moves in combat and runs away when Babs touches on mental health but at least they'll let Babs tuck them into bed at night if they're tired enough and Ted/Jason etc is like awww I didn't know you were a mom now!

Babs: What? I'm not a mom I'm just looking out for this kid because she needs someone.

Dinah: You had to take an hour off last week to take them to the dentist and another hour the week before to teach them how to spell and pronounce commonly used legal jargon.

Ted: Wow! How young is this kid? Should they be out crime fighting?

Babs: They're eighteen.

Ted:

Jason:

Babs: It's complicated alright!

[luna-azzurra]

Things Chronically Ill Characters Do...

(Just a note: This post isn't meant to romanticize or stereotype chronic illness. I'm writing this as someone who lives with autoimmune stuff myself, and this is just me trying to put words to the complicated, exhausting parts of it. If you relate, you're not alone.)

›› saying “I’m just tired” instead of explaining the 7 different types of exhaustion clawing at their body on a molecular level

›› downplaying everything because they’re used to people minimizing it anyway ("It's fine." = their pain scale is at a solid 7 and climbing)

›› adjusting how they sit, stand, breathe, like constantly doing invisible math to avoid triggering symptoms

›› taking meds in absolute silence, like it’s just another chore. no fuss, just part of the routine now

›› staring at their phone trying to decide if canceling again makes them a flake or just a person trying to survive

›› laughing when someone says, “you don’t look sick,” because yeah chronic illness didn’t get the memo to show up on their face

›› learning to read their body like it’s an unpredictable roommate, not an enemy, just unreliable

›› turning down something fun with that quiet, practiced sadness of someone who wants to be okay but knows they’re not today

›› wearing loose clothes, heating pads under sweaters, compression gear no one sees, choosing function over fashion and resenting it a little

›› Googling symptoms they’ve had for years anyway, because hope is persistent and maybe there’s a new answer today

›› carrying snacks, meds, water, and that emergency pack like a traveling medic, just for themselves

›› pretending to be fine in public and then needing hours to recover once they’re alone

›› getting weirdly good at hiding pain in their voice, until you hear them drop it, and it’s like oh. oh you’re not okay today

›› celebrating the weirdest little wins ("I walked across the room without needing to sit down!" = achievement unlocked)

›› flinching when people hug them too hard because ouch, actually

›› scheduling life around their body like it’s a part-time job that pays in exhaustion and guilt

›› crying in frustration, not from pain, but from the unfairness of having to constantly explain, justify, adapt, survive

›› falling in love with the people who don’t ask what’s wrong with you, but what do you need today?

[txniesha]

Complication SylusxNon!MC reader pt.6

Synopsis: Some relationships are doomed to fail from the start. After all, how can a man destined to be someone else's, truly ever be yours?

CW: angst, cursing, typos

Word count: 1,138

A/N: This chapter is short but i feel like it really hits. It'll be a couple of more chapters after this before I wrap it up in a nice little boy of sadness!

He just stared at you, his eyes unreadable, not giving anything away. You hated when he did this, when you confronted him, and he just shuts down. You sigh frustrated and pull out of his grasp “I knew it, i knew i should've stayed in Linkon. You...you don't love me. You don't know what you want but you feel as if you're entitled to me, like no one else can have me while you do whatever the fuck you want” You look up at him  tears in your eyes “I can’t do this anymore Sylus and I know I say this all the time but I’m serious. I'm tired of being hurt by you, crying over you, letting you drag me back into this bullshit. And the blame isn't only on you as i keep allowing you to treat me this way, but I can't anymore” stray tears stained your cheeks as you spoke, and your throat felt tighter with each word. 

He shakes his head and grabs your face wiping the tears away “Don't” he says his voice hoarse “Don't say you're done with me. I can't let you leave; let you walk away. You're the only thing in my life that feels real, not prewritten, predestined, controlled.” he rests his forehead on yours and looks down into your eyes “[name] i need you. I want to show you off, love you without shame, i just don't know how to go against fate”  

 He leans down and brings his lips towards yours and kisses you, and you let him. You don't pull away, you lean into it. ‘I'm a fucking dumbass’ you say in your mind as he takes over your mouth. His tongue slipped into your mouth and rolls against yours. His kiss that started off gentle grew into a messy desperate and frantic one. He pushed you up against the wall his hand making its way up your shirt and cupping your breast. You pull away and look at you “Don't think you can fuck your way out of this conversation Sylus” you say shakily, slightly out of breath. His lips find their way to your neck and pressed soft kisses along it. “I’m not fucking may way out of anything, I'm showing you my choice” he murmurs into your neck, his finger now flicking your sensitive bud of your breast. You wondered if sleeping with him would just make you fall back in his trap and so you made up your mind.  

You pulled away from Sylus and shook your head “I can't Sylus, you can't keep fucking your way back into my life. If you want me you must prove it, and the first step is telling her that you don't want anything to do with her” He looks at you and shakes his head “I cant just not have her in my life, that's not how this works” he says his jaw clenching. “Sylus these bullshit ass answers you keep giving me aren't working anymore. Tell me the truth, the whole truth of why you can't let her go” You say looking at him. He turns and walks away from you causing you to turn your arms up in confusion and huff. You followed him into the living room where he poured a glass of scotch and sat down on the couch. “Her and I are connected in ways that are incomprehensible” 

He looks up at you, his brows furrowed “Shes the only one that can bring my suffering to an end. Our souls are bound and connected.” 

You look at him confused and bewildered “what fucking bull shit are you spewing to me right now” He sighs and runs his hands down his face frustrated. “See, i knew you wouldn't believe me. I'm not making this up, [name] this is a lot deeper than you know. Our bond goes back centuries and every lifetime I spend with her is a tragic one. I just wanted it to all end” he says, his voice strained and eyes desperate.  

He looks up at you and smiles softly even though it looks like it hurt to do the action “but then I met you. You gave me fire, passion, something I had never felt before” he grabs your wrist and pulls you down onto the couch with him putting you two at the same eye level. He grabs your face gently and makes you look at him. Your eyes were glassy, and your throat felt itchy with every word he said. “[Name] you gave me the passion to fight for what i want against that damned curse and that damned bond. I’m cursed to be with her and cursed to be away from you and that hurts me. So, I fight it and fight it and no matter how much I try to forget about her and be with you, it won't let me. I want you so bad it kills me to be away from you” he had your hand in his now, his face pressed against them as he spoke those last words, his voice breaking with each word.  

“Sylus” Your voice breaks as you look down at him. You had never once seen him this vulnerable. This un put together and broken. “How can you be with me if you're destined to be with her” tears flow down your cheek and drops onto his “How can you say you want to be with me if you were never meant to be mines to begin with?" He looks up at you, the bottom of his eyes red as if he was on the verge of completely breaking “please, don't do this to me. Please I need you, I can't” he gulps mid-sentence tightening his grip on your hands “I can't lose you, youre the most important thing to me”  

You pull your hands away from him and look away “I don't know.... if I can trust what youre saying” you stand and he stands with you, his forming towering over you easily and intimidatingly. “I need some time, alone, away from here, to think” you say turning away from him.

He doesn't reach out for you, doesn't try to stop you, he just stands there. “Will you come back” he asks silently, his voice raw with something you'd never heard. You don't turn to look at him. “It depends on what I find when I’m away” you then walk away and down to his bedroom to put on some clothes. You grab your things quickly and head towards the elevator.  

“[name]” Sylus calls from behind you, this time you turn to see the broken shell of a man standing there “I promise ill make sure what you find...is worth returning to” You don't answer, you just enter the elevator doors and leave.  

tags: @sillyfreakfanparty @crimsonmarabou @z3vl @96jnie @perqbeth @justpassingdontworry @malleus-draconias-rose @sleepykittyenergy @aboobie @syluslittlecrows @scrambledhuevos79 @madam8 @fandomenbylover@insidious-innocence @etherealsoul90 @xsammijoanneex @acasualattempt  @sylusgirlie7 @jasperjokester @animegamerfox @jae48 @goldenbirdiee @zoezhive @rxelarailuj @huuvu @simphoursonly  @athanasia-day @asakiyu @thirstblogforaparchedgirl @eolivy @caramelizedpopcirn @auraficial @dilf-destroyer-04@hebreeee@noxus123@satansdaughter123

[izzih22]

My favorite trope is bestie to lovers but you already did a story like that before I believe so do enemies to lovers or friends with benefits

Don’t Make This Complicated

Note: I hope y’all like this I wasn’t to sure what to do ngl

Azzi’s breath caught when she heard the lock click behind her.

Paige didn’t say a word.

Just leaned against the door of her apartment, arms crossed, blue eyes fixed on Azzi like she already knew exactly what she came for. Like this had all happened before.

Because it had.

Too many times.

Too many nights where they crossed lines they swore they wouldn’t. Where it was supposed to just be casual no strings, no feelings, no talking about it after.

Paige never asked her to stay the night. Azzi never expected her to.

But still, she always lingered a little too long.

Azzi swallowed hard. “Hey.”

Paige didn’t move. “You said you weren’t coming.”

“I changed my mind.”

Paige stepped closer, slow and sure. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded, cheeks flushed already. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You never can without me, huh?”

Azzi didn’t respond, but the way her body shifted, soft and uncertain, gave her away. Paige loved that how easily Azzi came undone, how she never had to say a word for Paige to read her like a favorite book she knew by heart.

Without asking, Paige reached for her, hand curling around the back of Azzi’s neck. Gentle at first. Then tighter. Azzi let out the smallest exhale, one that made Paige smirk.

“Take off your shoes.”

Azzi obeyed.

“Jacket too.”

Azzi shrugged it off, every movement unhurried, almost reverent. She knew the game. Knew what Paige liked. Knew exactly where this was headed.

But tonight felt… different.

Paige guided her to the couch, fingers brushing against Azzi’s waist. “Sit.”

Azzi sat, legs close together, hands in her lap like she didn’t know what to do with them.

“You nervous?” Paige asked, voice low, teasing.

Azzi looked up at her. “No.”

“Liar.”

Paige moved in between Azzi’s knees, hand resting on her thigh. Azzi’s breath hitched again.

“I don’t get you,” Paige murmured, her thumb brushing soft circles over Azzi’s skin. “You say this doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just physical. But you look at me like I’m everything.”

Azzi blinked, caught.

“I—I don’t.”

Paige leaned in. “You do.”

Her lips hovered just above Azzi’s. “You act like you’re mine.”

Azzi whispered, “I am, when I’m here.”

That flicker of vulnerability… Paige felt it like a punch to the chest. She kissed her then, fierce and unrelenting. Azzi melted into it, her hands clutching at Paige’s hoodie like she was drowning and Paige was the only thing keeping her above water.

This wasn’t just about heat or tension or dominance anymore.

It was the way Azzi always gave herself so completely without needing to be asked.

It was the way Paige couldn’t help but want to protect her, ruin her, hold her all at once.

Paige pulled back, lips swollen, eyes searching Azzi’s face. “You drive me insane, you know that?”

Azzi nodded slowly. “You do the same to me.”

“Then why are we still pretending this is just sex?”

Azzi didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her with something raw in her eyes.

“Because if I say it out loud,” she said, voice shaking, “I’m scared you’ll leave.”

Paige was quiet.

Then, she sat back slightly, taking Azzi’s chin between her fingers, tilting her face up.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Paige said. “Not unless you tell me to.”

Azzi’s eyes closed. Her lips trembled. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

And she didn’t.

Not that night. Not the next.

And somewhere between the kisses and the tangled limbs in Paige’s bed, neither of them could pretend anymore.

Whatever this was it was already more.

They just weren’t ready to say it.

Not yet.

But soon.

Maybe next time.

Maybe when Paige didn’t leave the room after. Maybe when Azzi finally asked her to stay.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 36: October 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

Belle had always known that Lorenzo loved Charlotte.

You didn’t need to be particularly observant to catch it — not when he looked at her like she was sunlight bottled into human form. He was quieter about it than most, but in a way that only made it more obvious: the way he listened, the way he waited, the way his eyes found her even in a crowded room. Not infatuation. Not flair. Just… certainty.

So when Lorenzo asked if he could stop by for coffee, she hadn’t expected it to be anything dramatic.

But then he sat at her kitchen table — still in his work clothes, his tie half-loosened, hands wrapped too tightly around the mug she’d handed him — and didn’t speak for almost five full minutes.

That’s how she knew something was up.

She didn’t press.

Not yet.

She just waited.

Lorenzo had always been the sort of person who unfolded in his own time, like a letter written in longhand — slow, thoughtful, deliberate.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I want to propose.”

Belle blinked. Once. Twice.

Then smiled softly. “You think?”

“I know,” he said. “I do. I’ve known. For a while. I just…”

He looked down at his mug.

“I want it to be right.”

Belle rested her chin in her palm and watched her oldest brother. He looked—nervous. Earnest in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time. Maybe since they were kids, before life got complicated and painful and messy.

“And what does right look like to you?”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo said, huffing a laugh. “I don’t know. I just keep getting in my own head. She deserves something special. Not flashy. Not over the top. Just… her.”

Belle smiled wider, something warm unfolding in her chest.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s build it.”

Lorenzo looked up, surprised. “You’ll help?”

“Of course I’ll help,” she said. “You’re my brother. She’s your person. This is literally my favorite kind of project.”

“But don’t you have enough on your plate?”

Belle gestured around the room, where baby things sat half-unpacked in calm, expectant chaos. “Max is currently on a mission to figure out how to swaddle a stuffed animal. I think I can spare a little time.”

He laughed, properly this time, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Alright then,” she said, reaching for a notepad. “Talk to me. What are the non-negotiables?”

Lorenzo leaned back, thinking. “Nothing public. Nothing performative. And something that includes her family, somehow — she’s close to them. But also something quiet. Intimate.”

Belle nodded. “Sentimental. Classic. Maybe something outdoors? A picnic? Or a dinner somewhere that matters to you both?”

“There’s a lake house,” he said slowly. “Her grandparents used to take her there when she was a kid. We’ve been a few times, and she always looks… peaceful there.”

Belle’s heart softened.

“There,” she said. “That’s the place. That’s the moment.”

Lorenzo looked like he was still trying to catch up to the fact that she was doing this with him — no teasing, no commentary, just belief.

“Belle,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him — her oldest brother, who had been too busy or too far removed to see her as anything other than Charles and Arthur’s quiet shadow. But right now, he was here. Asking her. Because he trusted her.

“You’re going to do this right,” she said. “Because it’s not about perfect words or some cinematic moment. It’s about her. And you already know how to love her. You just need to show her that in a way she’ll remember.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly. “You’d be a terrifying wedding planner.”

“I’m saving that energy for Emilian’s first birthday,” Belle said dryly. “There will be a live band and possibly jungle animals.”

He laughed again, eyes a little glassy now. “God, you’re going to be a good mum.”

Belle smiled down at the notepad, heart full.

“And you,” she said, writing down lake house, sunset, something honest, “are going to be a husband.”

****

They were on the couch, tangled together in the quiet kind of way that felt like routine now. Max’s head was resting on Belle’s belly, his hand absently tracing slow circles over the stretch of skin beneath her shirt, like he was trying to memorize every inch before December came.

Belle had one hand in his hair. The other held her planner, open but forgotten on the coffee table.

“He kicked again,” Max murmured, pressing a kiss just above her navel.

Belle smiled, her heart aching in that full, quiet way that still caught her off guard sometimes. “He’s been kicking all day,” she said. “Probably hates how I folded over during that client call.”

Max snorted. “He already has opinions. Verstappen genes.”

She rolled her eyes, fond. “God help us.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. Outside, Monaco glowed—blue and gold and still.

Then Max said, softly, “We’ve got the triple header coming up.”

Belle nodded. “I know.”

“Austin, then Mexico, then Brazil.”

“I know.”

“I want you to come.”

Belle looked down at him.

Max sat up slowly, brushing a hand through his hair. “If you feel up to it,” he added. “If it’s safe. I just… I know it’s the last one before—before you can’t really travel anymore. And I don’t want to go three races without you if we can help it.”

His voice was quiet. Honest.

Belle let her hand rest on the slope of her belly. Their son kicked again—just once, like punctuation.

“I was thinking the same thing,” she said softly. “I don’t want to miss this part. After Brazil, I’ll stay home. Nest. Wait. After that, I won’t be able to travel long haul. Not safely, anyway. I just… I want to be there with you. One last time.”

Max’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something deeper. Something tender.

“You’d really be okay with all that travel?” he asked. “Three races in three weeks?”

She nodded. “I already talked to my OB. I’ll be 34 weeks by Brazil. She said if I’m careful, and I rest, and we don’t take risks, it’s fine. After that, no more flights. But until then…”

Max reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

“I’d love that,” he said softly. “I miss you when you’re not there.”

Belle smiled. “You have GP.”

Max smirked. “GP doesn’t sneak me cookies or remind me to drink water. Or kiss me before every quali.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “You want kisses before quali?”

“Obviously. It’s good luck.”

She laughed and leaned in, pressing one to his temple.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “Three races. Three cities. Then we come home. And wait.”

Max smiled. It was a tired kind of smile, edged in awe. “He’ll be here so soon.”

Belle nodded. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It will,” Max said. Then, after a beat: “Are you sure, though? It’s a lot of travel. Long flights. Weird hotel beds.”

“I’ll bring my pillow fortress,” Belle teased, nudging him with her foot. “And snacks. And compression socks. I’ll be fine.”

Max leaned over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Then her collarbone. Then her belly. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then we’ll do this together.”

Belle closed her eyes. Felt the hum of his voice against her skin. And the tiny flutter of their son, responding like he knew.

Together.

Until they weren’t two anymore.

But three.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: So… I have some news. Charlotte said yes 💍😊

Arthur: WHAT?????? WAIT YOU PROPOSED????

Charles: BRO. What do you mean “said yes”??? WHEN??? HOW??? WHERE???

Arthur: Wait Belle knew didn’t she SHE TOTALLY KNEW

Belle: 👀

Charles: UNREAL. I TELL YOU EVERYTHING. AND YOU STAYED QUIET FOR THIS???

Belle: It wasn’t my news to tell! 😇 Also… I helped pick the ring. And the spot. And the picnic menu.

Arthur: I KNEW IT THE BASKET IN YOUR BACKSEAT LAST WEEK YOU SAID IT WAS FOR A “CLIENT MEETING”!!!

Lorenzo: It was a meeting. With my future wife 😌

Charles: Okay but for real—congratulations. You both deserve all the happiness. Still mad you didn’t tell us though.

Belle: 🥹 I was under strict brother-sister confidentiality. But I’m so happy for you, Enzo. Truly.

Arthur: Can we plan the bachelor party?? Please??

Charles: No. I know you. Absolutely not.

Arthur: 😤

Lorenzo: Thanks, all of you. Belle, especially. I couldn’t have pulled it off without you.

Belle: Anytime. Now go be nauseatingly in love.

***

Pascale hadn’t even set her wine glass down when Lorenzo said, “Charlotte and I are engaged.”

There was a beat of silence—sharp, almost theatrical—and then the room burst into overlapping exclamations.

Arthur stood up to hug him, nearly knocking over the bowl of olives. Charles thumped Lorenzo on the back like they were still teenagers. Even Alexandra, who was usually more reserved around the Leclerc chaos, was smiling wide, clutching Charlotte’s hands and asking a thousand questions.

Pascale pressed both hands to her heart, eyes wet. “Oh, my darling—felicitations!” She turned to Charlotte, enveloping her in a tight hug. “You are already family, but now it’s official. I am so, so happy.”

Belle watched it all unfold with a soft smile, Max’s hand resting on her knee under the table. She was genuinely happy for Lorenzo. 

But when Pascale dabbed her eyes and said, “Oh, we have to start planning,” Belle felt the old, familiar weight settle in her chest.

“Summer wedding?” Arthur asked. “Italy?”

“Too hot in July,” Charlotte said, laughing. “We were thinking September.”

“Belle should help you with everything,” Pascale added warmly. “She always has the best taste.”

Belle opened her mouth, closed it again.

“She already has,” Lorenzo said quickly, rescuing her. “She helped plan the proposal. Honestly, it was perfect.”

Charles raised his glass. “To love. And to Belle being a better event planner than all of us combined.”

They all drank. Belle sipped at her water, but she couldn’t quite keep the smile on her face when Pascale turned to her and said, with teasing affection, “Well, I expect an invite this time.”

The joke slipped out easily.

The silence that followed was harder.

Max’s fingers subtly curled around Belle’s under the table. “What do you mean?”

Pascale looked at Belle. “You know. The last wedding. The one none of us were invited to.”

“Maman,” she said quietly.

“No, I’m not trying to be rude, I just…” She trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “We found out from the press, Belle.”

Belle exhaled. “You forgot my birthday, remember? All of you,” Belle said sharply. 

“I turned 25. And you were all too busy with Charles winning Monaco.”

“Belle,” Pascale said gently, “we didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Belle interrupted, and her voice wasn’t cold. It was tired. Bone-deep tired. “You never mean it.”

The table was quiet now. Even Arthur wasn’t fidgeting.

Belle glanced down at her plate. Then back up. Her gaze flicked to each of them—her brothers, her mother, Charlotte and Alexandra.

“Max and I got married on a Tuesday morning. At Monaco City Hall. We didn’t want the press. Didn’t want a spectacle.”

Pascale’s face crumpled. “But we should’ve been there.”

“No,” Belle said, with finality. “You really shouldn’t have.”

She folded her napkin slowly, carefully, like it would help her hold back the years she hadn’t said anything.

“Because in that moment, I didn’t want to wonder if any of you thought I was enough. I didn’t want to hear one more backhanded joke about how I decorate houses for Instagram. Or how I was the ‘soft’ Leclerc. Or how I should be grateful for being in the room.”

Max stayed silent beside her, but his hand remained warm on her knee, steady, grounding.

“I wanted to be surrounded by people who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t compare me to Charles or Arthur or Lorenzo. Who didn’t make me feel like a placeholder in my own life.”

She turned toward her mother. “So no, you weren’t invited. Because it wasn’t about you. Or about what a wedding should look like. It was about what felt safe.”

“Belle,” Pascale began, reaching for her, “we didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” Belle cut in. “You’ve spent years not meaning to. Not meaning to forget. Not meaning to brush me off. Not meaning to act like my work is just expensive Pinterest. Like I’m the background character in someone else’s success story.”

Pascale’s expression shifted, like someone trying to balance shame and defensiveness and failing at both.

“When Max and I got married,” Belle continued, her voice lower now, steadier, “we had everyone there who mattered. People who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t need a headline to decide I was important.”

Max’s hand tightened around hers under the table, silent but solid.

“It wasn’t a grand wedding. There was no string quartet, no designer gown. Emilie somehow managed to get my favourite flowers and cake. And it was the best day of my life.”

She looked at her mother.

“And I didn’t invite you. Not because I wanted to hurt you. But because, in that moment, I couldn’t handle the way you made me feel. Like nothing I did would ever be enough. Like even that day would be compared to someone else’s. Like I’d be asked why I didn’t wait. Or why the photos weren’t professional.”

Pascale looked stricken.

“I didn’t want to feel like an afterthought at my own wedding,” Belle finished, quietly. “So I didn’t invite the people who made me feel like one.”

Silence.

Lorenzo swallowed hard. Arthur looked like he might cry. Charles… looked wrecked.

And Pascale, for once, said nothing at all.

Belle pushed her chair back gently, the scrape of wood on tile loud in the quiet.

“I’m going to check on dessert,” she said, standing. “Max, come with?”

He rose immediately. ***

The kitchen was warm and low-lit, all copper tones and quiet clatter. Belle moved automatically, opening drawers, checking the oven—like she hadn’t just dropped every hard, buried truth onto the dinner table like a thunderclap.

Max followed, quietly closing the door behind them.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She reached for plates with trembling hands.

“Belle.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Too fast. Too flat.

He crossed the room in three steps, gently placing his hands on her hips. “You don’t have to be.”

Belle inhaled like she was bracing for another wave, but when it didn’t come, she sagged slightly into him, just enough that he felt it.

“I didn’t mean to make it a scene,” she murmured, voice frayed at the edges.

“You didn’t make a scene,” Max said. “You told the truth.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at the cake tin on the counter like it might disappear if she focused hard enough.

“I’m just surprised you said all that out loud,” he added gently.

Belle let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a breath. “So am I.”

He rubbed small circles into her back. “They needed to hear it.”

“She won’t change.”

“Maybe not right away,” Max allowed. “But tonight… that landed. They were quiet, Belle. Your mother looked like she got hit with a brick.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” she muttered, though she didn’t pull away.

Max lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I mean it. You gave them a wake-up call they couldn’t brush off. That takes guts.”

She was silent for a long beat. Then: “I didn’t want to cry in front of them.”

“You didn’t. You stood up for yourself.”

Belle turned slightly to look at him. “Did I come off like an asshole?”

Max smiled, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “No. You came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.”

Belle exhaled. “I wasn’t trying to hurt her.”

“I know,” he said. “And deep down, I think she does too. But she needed to feel it. You gave her the truth. What she does with it is up to her.”

Belle leaned into his chest fully now, the tension finally starting to seep out of her limbs. “I just… I don’t want our son to ever feel that way. Like he has to earn being seen.”

Max wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple. “He won’t. Not with you as his mother.”

She let out another breath, steadier this time. “God. Dessert feels so stupid now.”

Max tilted his head. “It’s chocolate tart. Nothing about that is ever stupid.”

She laughed, soft and tired. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek, “are the bravest person I know.”

***

The moment Belle disappeared through the kitchen door with Max, the silence she left behind clung to the room like smoke.

No one spoke.

Charlotte gently touched Lorenzo’s arm, but he barely registered it.

He turned to his mother, voice low. “Do you realize what you just did?”

Pascale blinked at him, eyes still wide. “Lorenzo—”

“No.” He shook his head, biting back the anger rising in his throat. “You don’t get to play innocent now, Maman. You made a joke about not being invited to her wedding, and you didn’t think once about why you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” Pascale said, voice trembling. “It was meant to be lighthearted.”

“And that’s the problem.” Lorenzo’s voice hardened. 

Pascale blinked at her oldest son. “Lorenzo—”

“No,” he said, calm but sharp. “Don’t deflect.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were. Like you always do. Like we all do. And I’ve let it slide for years. We all have. Because it’s Belle, and she never kicks up a fuss, right?”

He leaned forward, fingers pressed against the edge of the table like he needed something solid to hold him down.

“But she remembers.” His voice dropped, hard with the weight of truth. “She remembers everything you brush off. Every joke about her job. Every time we prioritized a podium over a person. Every thing we forgot because we were too caught up in what one of us was doing on the track.”

Pascale’s eyes were glassy. “I didn’t mean to hurt her—”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo snapped, sharper than anyone in the room had ever heard him. “You keep saying that. You never mean to. But it happens anyway. And because she doesn’t fight you on it, you think it didn’t cut.”

Arthur looked down. Even Charles didn’t try to interrupt.

“She helped me plan my proposal, Maman. Thought of every detail, reminded me to tell Charlotte’s parents first—she did it all with a smile. And not once did she bring up her wedding. Not once.”

He sat back slowly, tone dipping into something quieter. “She didn’t even want a wedding with us. You understand how much that says?”

Pascale had a hand pressed to her lips now.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe with you. Not loved. Not supported. Safe. Do you know how devastating that is?”

Pascale blinked hard, and for once, she didn’t have anything to say.

“And you know what?” Lorenzo added. “That’s on you. Not her. She found someone who sees her. Who values her. Who protects her, because he understands what it feels like to be treated like you’re never quite enough.”

Lorenzo’s tone turned more bitter than he meant it to. “God, Max Verstappen treats her better than any of us ever have. And we’re her blood.”

Pascale shook her head, tears finally spilling over. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Lorenzo echoed Belle’s words, soft but resolute. “And I’m done pretending you didn’t.”

He stood, placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.

“I’m going to help with dessert,” he said quietly.  He looked around the table, gaze landing on his mother last. “You can sit with what Belle said for a while.”

And without waiting for a response, he walked away.

***

Belle’s hands stayed on the countertop, gripping the edge a little tighter than necessary. Her breath was steady, but only because she’d fought for every inch of calm since leaving the dining room. Max hovered nearby, silently setting out the plates for dessert. He hadn’t said a word—just let her have her silence, the same way he always had when she needed to recalibrate.

Then she heard the second pair of footsteps.

Lorenzo.

“Belle,” he said gently, and that was all it took for her throat to go tight again.

She turned slowly, blinking fast. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—tonight was supposed to be about you. And I—God, I just—ruined it.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh and crossed the kitchen in two strides.

“Petite sœur,” he said softly, wrapping her into a hug so immediate and so warm that it nearly undid her.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured into her hair. “Don’t ever say that.”

Belle shook her head against his shoulder. “But I took the spotlight—”

“No. You spoke your truth. Finally. That’s not stealing attention. That’s surviving.” He pulled back slightly, hands still on her shoulders, anchoring her. “And frankly? Someone needed to say it. It should’ve been me. Years ago.”

Her eyes welled again. “I didn’t want to make it about me.”

“It wasn’t about you,” he said. “It was about all of us. And what we didn’t see. What we didn’t do.” His voice softened. “And for what it’s worth? I’ve never been prouder of you.”

Belle blinked at him, stunned.

“I meant it when I said you helped make the proposal perfect. And tonight? You gave me the best gift you could have—your honesty.”

She leaned her forehead against his. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Lorenzo whispered. “And I love you. Even if you made Charles nearly cry during dinner.”

Belle laughed, a wet, breathless sound. “He’ll recover.”

“Barely,” Max called from the counter without turning around. “Pretty sure he is still emotionally buffering.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: I just emotionally nuked a family dinner. Max says it was brave. I think I might throw up. (Also, Charles looked like someone kicked his puppy.)

Emilie: WHAT. WHAT DID YOU DO. Please tell me it was deserved and you finally snapped. I’ve been manifesting it for a year.

Belle: Lorenzo announced his engagement. Pascale made a joke about not being invited to my wedding. So I told them why.

Emilie: Holy. Shit.

Emilie: You didn’t just light a match. You set that table ablaze. I am SO proud of you.

Belle: I didn’t mean to make it about me. It just came out. All of it. Every forgotten birthday. Every time they dismissed my work. I told her she wasn’t invited because she made me feel like an afterthought.

Emilie: GOOD. She needed to hear it. You’ve spent your whole life trying to be palatable. Quiet. Easy. But you are not an afterthought. And it’s not your job to shrink so they’re comfortable.

Belle: Max has been perfect, obviously. Didn’t say a word while I was talking. Just stayed next to me. Held my hand. Told me later I didn’t make a scene—I told the truth. That they were finally quiet because it landed.

Emilie: That man. That man would build you a cathedral out of reclaimed stone and lavender if you asked.

Belle: I’d settle for the chocolate tart he just plated.

Emilie: I’m proud of you. So proud. I hope you know how big this is. You stood up for yourself and didn’t apologize for it. You chose yourself.

Belle: I think I finally did. And I think—for the first time in a long time—I don’t feel guilty about it.

Emilie: Damn right you don’t. Also I need Charles' face in that moment. Please. A voice note reenactment. I beg.

Belle: He looked like someone told him Ferrari ran out of red paint.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Just got back from dinner at Belle’s family’s place. It was… Intense.

Sophie: Oh? What happened? Are you okay?

Max: I’m fine. Belle’s a bit wrung out. Her brother Lorenzo got engaged. Announced it at dinner. Everyone was celebrating. Pascale made some joke about expecting an invite this time.

Sophie: Oh no.

Max: Yeah. Belle told them why they weren’t invited to our wedding. In front of everyone. Calm. Clear. Brutal.

Sophie: Good for her.

Max: She told them they forgot her birthday. That they treat her like she’s nothing. Said she only invited people who remembered her. I’ve never seen her do that before. Not with them.

Sophie: She finally snapped.

Max: Yeah. But it wasn’t dramatic. It was worse. It was honest. Tired. She just laid it out—like she wasn’t going to carry their excuses anymore.

Max: And her mother. God. She looked shocked. Like she couldn’t believe Belle didn’t feel loved.

Sophie: Because people like that don’t notice until it’s too late. They don’t think they have to change because they’re the mother.

Max: Exactly. She kept saying “I didn’t mean to.” And Belle just said, “But you did.”

Sophie: Oof. That girl has been swallowing it all for years, hasn’t she?

Max: All of it. Her work. Her feelings. Being ignored. She told them the reason she married me without them was because she didn’t feel safe. And I think it finally hit them. Maybe. Hopefully.

Max: But I don’t understand her mother. How do you look at someone like Belle and not see her? She’s brilliant. She’s kind. She feels everything. And they made her feel like she didn’t matter.

Sophie: Because some people only love the version of you they can control. And Belle? She’s soft, yes—but she’s also steel. That scares people who only know how to hold love with conditions.

Max: I didn’t even have to say anything. She did it all on her own. And then she turned to me in the kitchen and asked if she came off like an asshole.

Sophie: Oh, sweetheart.

Max: I told her no. She came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.

Sophie: I’m proud of her. And proud of you. She needed someone who would stand beside her while she took her voice back. And that’s exactly what you did.

Max: I don’t get it, Mama. How can you have a daughter like Belle and make her feel like she has to earn your love?

Sophie: Because some people only know how to love the loud ones. The gold medals. The press conferences. The obvious successes. Not the quiet girl who builds beauty and doesn’t ask for applause.

Sophie: But you see her. And that matters more than anything.

Max: She told me she didn’t want our son to ever feel like that. Like he has to earn being seen.

Sophie: He won’t. Because his father will show him what love looks like. And his mother will teach him how to build a home out of strength and gentleness.

Max: I hope so. I just hate that it ever made her feel small.

Sophie: That’s because you love her. And you, my boy, are nothing like her mother.

Max: Good. Because she deserves better.

Sophie: She has better now. She has you.

***

Victoria hadn’t meant to stay long.

She’d only stopped by to drop off a scarf she’d picked up for her mother in Amsterdam. But Sophie had made tea, and the afternoon light was soft, and somehow they’d ended up on the couch with lemon biscuits between them and a conversation that turned, inevitably, to Belle.

Specifically, the Leclercs.

Max had told Sophie the whole story via text—blunt, half-capitalized, frustrated in a way he rarely got—but Victoria hadn’t realized how much had happened until Sophie quietly said, “Pascale made a joke about expecting an invite next time,” and stirred her tea like she was imagining stirring something else instead.

Victoria blinked. “She joked about not being invited?”

Sophie hummed. Calm. Neutral. Terrifying.

Victoria sat back a little.

Because she knew that sound. She’d heard it as a teenager when Jos yelled and stomped and slammed doors—and Sophie just got quiet. When Jos was a hurricane and Sophie was the pressure drop right before the sky cracked in two.

Everyone thought Jos Verstappen was the scary one. And he was, in his own way. But Jos exploded, and Sophie? Sophie waited. Sophie watched. Sophie didn’t lose control—she took it. And there was something so much more lethal in that.

“She said it with a laugh, apparently,” Sophie went on, still stirring. “Right after Belle helped plan the proposal. Said she expected an invite to this one.”

Victoria blinked again. “Oh, wow.”

“Mm.”

“She said that in front of everyone?”

“In front of Belle. At the table.”

Victoria felt something flicker in her chest. A cold edge of anger on Belle’s behalf. “What did Belle say?”

“She told them the truth,” Sophie said softly. “That she got married surrounded by people who remembered her birthday. That she didn’t want backhanded comments at her own wedding. That she didn’t feel safe with her own family.”

Victoria’s jaw tightened. “And Pascale?”

“Tried to say she didn’t mean to hurt her.” Sophie finally set the spoon down, slow and deliberate. “I suppose that’s supposed to count for something.”

There was a long silence then—thicker than the steam curling from the kettle, heavier than any of the words still hanging between them.

Victoria had grown up around volatility. Her father’s temper was legendary, a weather system that built and broke and sometimes came back with no warning at all. But Sophie—Sophie Verstappen was a different kind of terrifying. Jos exploded. Sophie observed. Calculated. Waited. And when she struck, it was always surgical.

Jos could knock you over like a thunderclap. Sophie could gut you with a whisper.

And right now, Victoria could see it: that slow, icy rage simmering just beneath her mother’s carefully neutral face.

“She told them,” Sophie said finally, “that she didn’t invite them to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. Not unloved. Not forgotten. Unsafe.”

Victoria swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I have half a mind to call Pascale and tell her exactly what I think of her.”

Victoria blinked. Sophie never said things like that. She didn’t make threats. She made decisions.

“She’s pregnant,” Sophie added, quieter now. “And still had to stand there and explain why her family made her feel like a placeholder in her own life.”

“I have watched Belle love that family with her whole heart,” Sophie said, and now her voice had an edge. “I have watched her shrink herself so they wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. I’ve watched her pretend she doesn’t care that they forget her. That they talk over her. That they diminish everything she is.”

The kettle clicked off, but neither of them moved.

“She was raised to believe love is conditional,” Sophie said, not looking at her. “That it comes after achievements. Or for being quiet. Or for not asking for too much.”

Victoria felt something lodge in her chest.

“She has spent her whole life shrinking to fit into their idea of family,” Sophie continued, her voice steady and lethal. “And they still managed to ignore her.”

Victoria swallowed.

“And then she gets married—to my son—and not one of them is there. And not because she wanted to hurt them, but because she didn’t feel safe with them.” Sophie’s expression didn’t change, but her tone dropped low. “That’s not something you laugh about over dinner.”

Victoria sat very still.

Because that was the thing about Sophie Verstappen. You never saw her fury coming. She didn’t yell. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t rant or throw things or storm out. She just… waited. Like gravity. Like consequence. And then she spoke with that glacial softness that made you feel every syllable like it might cut.

Victoria suddenly felt like she was sixteen again and had missed curfew by three hours.

“I’m so mad for her,” she said after a pause. “Belle.”

Sophie nodded. “So am I.”

“She deserves better.”

“She has better,” Sophie said. And that time, there was warmth in it. Fierce. Unshakable. “She has Max. And she has us.”

“You like her,” Victoria said, surprised by the softness that slipped into her own voice.

“I love her,” Sophie corrected. “I don’t care how she came into this family. I don’t care what her last name is. Belle is mine now.”

Victoria blinked fast. “God. Okay. You’re mad.”

Sophie looked at her, eyes dark and razor-sharp. “No, Victoria. I’m focused.”

And Victoria—who had seen Jos Verstappen angry enough to make grown men shrink back—felt a shiver run down her spine. Because Jos might yell. He might throw chairs and punch walls.

But Sophie? Sophie waited until your guard was down and then made sure you never forgot the consequences.

Victoria took a sip of her tea when Sophie finally poured it. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “I thought you learned that lesson in 2011.”

Victoria laughed, a little breathless. “Fair.” Then paused. “Do you think they even realize how lucky they are to still be in her life?”

Sophie gave her a look that said no, not yet.

But they would.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: i just left mom’s pretty sure she���s going to have words with your mother in law like. capital W. Italics. Possibly in multiple languages

Max: …oh no what kind of “words”

Victoria: the terrifying kind you know how dad yells? mom doesn’t yell. she plans

Max: okay but like what kind of planning are we talking tea-and-a-pointed-sentence planning or scorched-earth-PR-nightmare planning

Victoria: you know the answer to that she was calm. TOO calm. like she’s already made a list and put a neat little check box next to “remind pascale she’s on thin ice”

Max: oh god

Victoria: on the bright side if belle didn’t feel protected before she definitely has a battle unit behind her now

Max: she does she always did but still maybe warn me if mom starts practicing her diplomatic voice that one always ends in casualties

Victoria: consider this your official warning if Mom puts on pearls and offers to “drop by for a coffee,” RUN

***

Instagram DMs: @sophiekumpen → @charles_leclerc

Sophie: Bonjour, Charles. Would you mind sending me your mother’s number?

Charles:Bonjour… of course. Is everything alright?

Sophie: Everything is fine. I just think she and I should have a little chat. Mother to mother.

Charles: ... Is this about dinner?

Sophie: Among other things. Don’t worry. I’m always very polite. Even when I’m deeply unimpressed.

Charles: ...I’ll send the number. Should I warn her?

Sophie: If you like. Though I find surprise tends to make people more honest. 😊

Charles: Noted.

Sophie: Merci. And Charles? Be kind to your sister. She’s braver than most of you realize.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Sophie Kumpen just DMed me asking for Maman’s number.

Arthur: wait what. as in Max’s mum????

Lorenzo: …what did she say?

Charles: She said she wants to “have a little chat.” “Mother to mother.” Also said she’s “always polite. Even when deeply unimpressed.”

Arthur: holy shit

Lorenzo: That’s… terrifying. She’s the quiet kind of scary.

Charles: Right?? Jos is like a storm. You see him coming. Sophie is the earthquake under your feet.

Arthur: did you give her the number???

Charles: Yes?? What was I supposed to do?? She said “merci” and then told me to be kind to Belle because she’s braver than any of us know. I was emotionally held hostage.

Lorenzo: She’s not wrong. Belle is braver than any of us. We just didn’t see it.

Arthur: we should’ve. we should’ve made her feel like she didn’t need to be brave around us.

Charles: Well. Now we wait for the Sophie Effect.

Lorenzo: Maman’s not ready.

Arthur: nobody’s ready.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie :Good Morning, Belle! I’m in Monaco on Thursday. Would you like to have lunch?

Belle: Yes. That sounds great. Please. Wherever suits you. (Unless you want to come to ours, I’ll make something.)

Sophie: I’ll let you choose. I just want to see you. 12:30?

Belle: Perfect. I’ll make a reservation. Thank you for asking. I’ve really been wanting to talk to you.

Sophie: As have I. I’ll see you Thursday, sweetheart. Bring that beautiful baby bump. And don’t you dare worry about anything else.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: Did you know your mother is in Monaco on Thursday?!

Max: …no? I had no idea. Why? What’s happening? Is she okay?

Belle: She just texted and asked if I wanted to get lunch. No drama. Just lunch. She was very sweet.

Max: That’s good?? I mean, she loves you. I’m just confused why I didn’t know 😅

Belle: Maybe she didn’t want you to stress about it.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: The day has come. The talk is upon us. Mom’s going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Victoria: oh. oh no. is this about Pascale?

Max: She asked Belle to lunch. Alone. So I am expecting her to verbally annihilate Pascale for breakfast.

Victoria: SHE’S GOING TO EAT HER ALIVE IN A TAILORED COAT AND PEARL EARRINGS

Max: I’m honestly more afraid for Pascale than I was for Dad that one time

Victoria: she’s going to do the quiet voice

Max: the lethal quiet voice the "I’m not angry, I’m disappointed and also morally superior" tone

Victoria: may God have mercy on Pascale’s soul (because mom won’t)

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Max: Heads up. My mum is going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Charles: Oh no.

Max:

I’m 95% sure this is about Sunday.

And your mother.

Charles:

Ah. She asked me for her phone number but clearly she has decided that she needs to talk to her in person… 

Max: Yeah. She knows what happened at dinner. I didn’t tell her everything, but I didn’t need to. She’s connected enough dots to be… not thrilled.

Charles: How bad are we talking?

Max: Sophie-bad. Not Jos yelling bad—worse. The calm kind of bad. The “I will destroy you with facts and a smile” kind of bad.

Charles: …she’s going to kill Maman.

Max: She’s not going to kill her. She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.

Charles: Oh god.

Max: Belle has no idea. And I would prefer to keep it that way.

Charles: Understood. I’ll warn the others. (Should we call Lorenzo?? He’s the diplomat.)

Max:

If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: 🚨 Update: Sophie Verstappen is going to be in Monaco on Thursday. It’s not a social visit. It’s a Sophie visit. Max warned me. She knows what happened at dinner. Apparently Max didn’t even tell her everything—but she figured it out. She’s not happy.

Arthur: Okay but what does that mean exactly??

Lorenzo: It means she’s coming in tailored trousers and quiet fury and is about to emotionally dismantle Maman using three polite sentences and an herbal tea.

Arthur: …should we warn Maman??

Charles: That’s what I said.

Lorenzo: If we tell her, she’ll try to control the situation and that’ll make it worse.

Arthur: So we just… let her walk into the Sophie Trap??

Charles: We let Max handle it. He asked us not to say anything to Belle. She has no idea.

Lorenzo: She deserves a break, anyway. Honestly, Sophie giving Maman a long-overdue reality check might be the best gift Belle could get.

Arthur: She’s going to obliterate Maman, isn’t she. . 

Charles: Max literally said: “She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.”

Lorenzo: …well.

Arthur: Should we do something?

Charles: Max said not to. I quote: “If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.”

Lorenzo: Rude, but fair.

Arthur: I vote we hide.

***

Sophie hadn’t come to Monaco to start a fight. She didn’t need to.

People like Pascale Leclerc didn’t respond to raised voices. They responded to subtle shifts in temperature. Gentle truths. Icy clarity.

Sophie’s heels clicked softly against the stone path leading to Pascale Leclerc’s door, the rhythm even, precise. She’d chosen her outfit deliberately: clean ivory trousers, a soft blue blouse, hair pinned back. No jewelry except for her watch. Everything about her appearance said calm, collected, reasonable.

And that, of course, was the point.

Jos could intimidate with volume. Sophie did it with silence, with poise, with a steel-edged smile that didn’t need to raise its voice to be heard.

The door opened.

Pascale blinked at her, startled and still in her dressing robe, a coffee cup in hand.

“Sophie?”

“Bonjour, Pascale,” Sophie said, smooth as ever. “I hope I’m not intruding. I was in Monaco and thought we could catch up.”

“Oh, I—of course, come in.”

Inside, everything was as Sophie expected. Elegant. Neutral. Impersonal.

She took a seat in the sitting room, hands resting lightly in her lap as Pascale flitted to the kitchen to prepare espresso. Sophie’s eyes wandered—not snooping, just observant. Pictures of the Leclerc children lined the mantel. Arthur, Charles, Lorenzo—big frames, central placements. Belle was there too, but off to the side. Cropped in. Slightly tilted behind a decorative candle holder.

That told her everything she needed to know.

Pascale returned with the espresso cups and handed one over with a tentative smile. “Sugar?”

“Always,” Sophie replied.

There was a moment of polite silence.

“I’m not here because something’s wrong,” Sophie said calmly. “I’m here because something has been wrong for a very long time. And I think you need to hear it from someone who isn’t your daughter. I heard about Sunday finner”

Pascale blinked. “From Belle?”

“From my son.” Sophie’s gaze didn’t waver. “Belle doesn’t complain. She survives.”

Pascale flinched. “I didn’t mean to upset her—”

Sophie tilted her head, eyes cool. “You didn’t mean to. That’s always the excuse, isn’t it? You’ve built your whole motherhood on the idea that intention erases harm. It doesn’t.”

Pascale didn’t answer.

“You didn’t mean to forget her birthday. You didn’t mean to dismiss her work. You didn’t mean to make a joke about not being invited to her wedding when you didn’t even ask why you weren’t invited in the first place.”

Pascale went quiet.

Sophie continued, voice calm and exact. “You didn’t mean to hurt her. But you did. Over and over. Because you assumed she’d take it. That she’d understand. That she’d be fine.”

Sophie set down her cup and folded her hands neatly. Her voice didn’t sharpen, but it grew firmer. “I have two children. Max and Victoria.”

Pascale nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“They’re just about two years apart. He was born in 1997. She arrived in 1999. They were loud. Competitive. Wild.” A fond smile tugged at Sophie’s lips. “Very much siblings.”

Pascale exhaled. “They’re close in age too, you know. All three of them. Charles was born in 1997. Belle in ’99. Arthur in 2000. They were always… together. Loud. Chaotic. There is no manual for parenting children so tightly packed.”

Sophie let the silence breathe before adding, “And yet somehow, I managed not to forget my daughter.”

Pascale flinched.

“I love both of my children. Equally. Differently. Fiercely. And not once have I ever made Victoria feel like she mattered less than Max. Even when he started winning karting trophies. Even when the spotlight was on him and him alone. I could’ve let him take up all the space. He’s Max Verstappen—how easy would that have been? One child chasing world titles, the other left in the background.”

Sophie folded her hands delicately around her coffee cup.

“I know what it’s like to sit at a dinner table and choose to ask my daughter how her week was. I know what it’s like to remember her birthday even when Max has a race. I know what it’s like to see them both as whole people—equally deserving of being seen, even when the world tries to make it about just one.”

She let that sit between them. Let it sting.

“I don’t think you meant to forget Belle,” Sophie said, her voice soft now. “But you did. For years.”

“I know I haven’t always handled things well,” Pascale said. “Charles’ career took so much of everything. Time. Energy. Attention. And Belle never demanded anything. Not like the boys.”

“That’s the thing about girls like Belle,” Sophie said. “They don’t demand—they just quietly disappear. Until one day, they don’t come back.” Sophie leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t just forget your daughter. You erased her. Slowly. Kindly. With a smile. The kind of maternal neglect you can hide behind birthday cards and a roast chicken.”

Tears pricked in Pascale’s eyes. Sophie didn’t flinch.

“Belle is more than Charles’ sister. More than a Leclerc. She’s a woman. A professional. A wife. A soon-to-be mother. And you made her feel like the understudy in a family performance that never had room for her.”

A pause.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. That’s not an oversight, Pascale. That’s a statement. And she was right to make it.”

That landed.

“She didn’t marry Max because of who he is on the grid,” Sophie went on. “She married him because he saw her. Because he made her feel like she mattered. Because he never asked her to shrink.”

A long pause.

“She loves you, Pascale. That’s obvious. It’s why it hurt so much. It’s why she stayed quiet for so long. But she’s not going to beg anymore. And you don’t get forever to fix this.”

“I’ve watched Max fall in love exactly once,” Sophie said softly. “And it was with her. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at her.”

That stopped Pascale. She said nothing.

“Do you understand what that means, Pascale?” Sophie asked. “Max is not an easy man. He’s brilliant, yes. But he is intense. Demanding. He grew up in a house where love was conditional, where you earned praise by winning. And then Belle—your daughter—walked into his life, and everything changed.”

“She softened him,” Sophie continued. “Not by shrinking herself, not by appeasing him. But by loving him exactly as he is. By never making him feel like he was too much. She steadies him. Sees the parts of him he doesn’t let anyone else see. And because of her, he’s gentler. Happier. Kinder.”

A beat.

She met Pascale’s eyes. “Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how much it means to me, as his mother, that the person he chose makes him feel safe?”

Pascale looked down at her hands.

“She is so good for my son,” Sophie said. “She sees him as Max, not a trophy. And he sees her—really sees her. Your daughter. Your brilliant, kind, fiercely steady daughter.”

She picked up her phone and slipped it into her coat pocket. “You may not get many more chances to prove you see her too.”

Pascale rose slowly, still blinking.

Sophie reached the door, paused, and turned. “It’s not too late, Pascale. But it’s getting close.”

And with that, she left. Silent, measured, devastating. Like a queen who didn’t need a crown to be feared.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur:ok but like who’s going to check on Maman

Charles:not me.

Arthur:not me. Enzo, you’re up. 

Lorenzo:you’re both cowards. you’ve driven at monaco in the rain and you’re scared of a 60-year-old woman in linen this is above my paygrade

Charles: this is above everyone’s paygrade

Lorenzo:i’m not a diplomat. i can’t emotionally reparent maman.

Lorenzo: if i don’t text back in 20 mins assume the worst and tell Charlotte i loved her

Arthur: Also… maybe don’t bring up Belle for a bit.

Lorenzo: She already said, “I was trying my best.” I didn’t know what to say.

Arthur: Maybe: “Then your best wasn’t good enough”? 😬

Charles: Jesus Christ. Do not say that.

***

Belle was already seated at their usual table at Le Petit Marché by the time Sophie arrived—linen blouse perfectly pressed, sunglasses still perched on her head like she’d walked out of a silent film set in Saint-Tropez.

“Bonjour, sweetheart,” Sophie said, leaning down to kiss both her cheeks before taking the seat across from her.  “You look glowing.”

Belle laughed, a little breathless. “I look puffy.”

“You look lovely,” Sophie corrected, settling across from her. She flagged down the waiter with a tilt of her chin. “Still sparkling water?”

Belle nodded. “You remember.”

“I remember everything,” Sophie said lightly, but her eyes lingered on Belle for a second too long to be casual.

They ordered—salads, tartines, nothing too heavy—and by the time the drinks arrived, Belle had finally let herself exhale.

It was easy, being with Sophie. It always had been.

Max’s mother had never made her feel like she needed to be louder, or smaller, or clever in a way that didn’t come naturally. Sophie simply saw her, and for Belle, that was still something of a quiet miracle.

They talked about everything and nothing. It was only when their plates had been cleared and coffee had been brought that Sophie said, in her most casual tone, “And how are you doing? Truly?”

Belle blinked. “I’m… okay.”

Sophie tilted her head.

“Some days are harder than others,” Belle admitted. “But Max makes them better. Always.”

Sophie stirred her coffee once, twice, then set her spoon down with precision. “He’s different with you, you know.”

Belle smiled, ducking her head. “I know.”

“I’ve watched that boy drive through everything—noise, pressure, fire. And still, you’re the first person who made him slow down.” Sophie’s gaze softened. “It’s beautiful. And it scares him.”

Belle was still smiling when she looked up and saw Sophie watching her. Not assessing. Not judging. Just… looking.

“I had coffee with your mother this morning,” Sophie said, tone gentle but deliberate.

Belle blinked. “You did?”

“I did. She didn’t know I was coming. I like the element of surprise.”

Belle set her fork down carefully. “Was she…”

“Wrecked? Defensive? A little of both.” Sophie shrugged. “But I said what I needed to say.”

Belle was silent, unsure if she wanted to ask what that entailed.

Sophie didn’t make her. “I told her that I have a son who drives a Formula One car. And a daughter who has spent most of her life in his shadow. Just like you.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

“But I didn’t forget my daughter,” Sophie continued, voice calm and precise. “I didn’t ask her to shrink so her brother could shine. I didn’t treat her love as smaller just because it wasn’t in a headline. And I certainly didn’t make her feel like the supporting character in her own life.”

Belle looked down at her water glass. Her eyes stung.

“I told her,” Sophie went on, “that my son saw your worth immediately. From the first moment. ”

Belle swallowed, hard. “Sophie…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Sophie said. “It was overdue.”

“She loves you, I think,” Sophie said. “But love without effort is just sentiment. And you deserve more than sentiment.”

“Thank you,” Belle whispered.“I’m really glad you’re here,” Belle said softly.

Sophie smiled and reached across the table, brushing a piece of hair from Belle’s cheek. “You are my daughter now. I will always show up.”

Belle blinked fast. “If I cry in this café, Max is going to blame you.”

“He already does,” Sophie said breezily. “Now then we’re going shopping. I saw a pair of flats that are very you, and you’re not leaving without them.”

 Which meant Belle left the afternoon with a pair of maternity jeans so well-tailored she could cry, a cashmere cardigan in the softest dove grey, and a little knit hat for the baby that Sophie claimed she couldn’t walk past without buying.

“I spoil the people I love,” she said, like it was obvious.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Charles: Your mother’s intervention has resulted in our mother questioning all her life choices.

Max:Good. She should.

Charles: She’s been sitting on the balcony for an hour Just… staring at the sea Like she’s in an existential French film. Alexandra brought her tea and she whispered "Am I a bad mother?"

Max: Sophie works fast. And thoroughly.

Charles: She didn’t even raise her voice.

Max: She never does. That’s how you know it’s serious.

Charles: Do you think she’s available for hire? We could send her to FIA meetings.

Max: I’ll ask.

Charles: No but seriously I think it got through to her. She hasn’t deflected once today. She’s just… quiet.

Max: That’s progress.

Charles: She’s still herself, don’t worry. She asked if Belle wanted a proper wedding And Arthur started choking on his juice.

Max: Tell your mother our wedding was already perfect. No upgrades needed.

Charles: Tell your mother she might be the only person who’s ever successfully made our mother reflect. It’s like watching a glacier move.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: And has your mother-in-law survived Mom? 👀

Max:

She’s still breathing. But I think she’s in a mild existential crisis.

Victoria: Mild?

Max: She spent twenty minutes staring at the ocean in silence. Then apparently asked Charles if she’s been a bad mother. Then actually listened when he answered.

Victoria: Oh damn. Mom really unleashed the linen-trousered therapy nuke.

Max: She just sipped her espresso and dismantled a whole family system. Belle doesn’t know the half of it.

Victoria: She doesn’t need to. Mom did what moms are supposed to do: Protect their daughters.

Max: I know. And Belle’s glowing today. She had lunch with her and came back with a cardigan, a hat for the baby, and suspiciously expensive flats.

Victoria: That’s the Sophie Kumpen Experience™ Phase 1: espresso. Phase 2: emotional reparenting. Phase 3: light shopping spree.

Max: Tell me you’re related without telling me you’re related.

Victoria: Tell Belle I said she’s now Mom’s favorite. Also tell Pascale not to test her again unless she wants a sequel.

***

The room felt softer this time.

There was no cold weight in her chest, no sense of armor laced tight under her ribs. Belle still sat close to Max, still had one hand resting over her bump, but for once, it wasn’t to brace herself. It was just—her hand. On her stomach. Because their son had been active all morning, and she could feel the light nudges that reminded her, constantly, of the new chapter ahead.

Camille gave everyone the same calm nod as she sat. “Thank you for being here again.”

They all murmured polite hellos. Belle caught her brothers’ expressions—Charles quiet but attentive, Arthur slightly wary, Lorenzo composed as ever. Max, steady and grounded next to her, nodded at Camille. She always liked how seriously he took this.

But it was Pascale who surprised her.

Her mother looked tired—but not defensive. Not braced. She looked… resolved. There were faint lines beneath her eyes, the kind that come from crying. Her hair was pinned back neatly. Her hands folded in her lap. Belle didn’t recognize this version of her. And somehow, that made it harder.

“Before we begin,” Camille said gently, “Pascale mentioned she had something she’d like to say.”

Belle tensed automatically. Max’s pinky brushed hers in silent reassurance.

Pascale looked at her daughter.

“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly.

The words landed like a stone in the water. Clear. Heavy. Real.

Belle didn’t speak.

“I didn’t come here today to justify anything,” Pascale said. “I’ve spent too long doing that. Dismissing things. Telling myself that good intentions were enough.” She exhaled. “They weren’t.”

The silence in the room wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

“I’ve been thinking a lot this week,” Pascale continued. “About you, Belle. About how many birthdays I missed. How many quiet accomplishments I treated like background noise. I thought I was being fair. Letting everyone find their own way. But I see now—I see that I didn’t give you the same space I gave the boys.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

Pascale looked down, voice softer. “I told myself that because you didn’t complain, you were okay. That you were independent. That you didn’t need as much.” Her voice cracked. “But you did. Of course you did. And I wasn’t there.”

There was a moment—brief, flickering—where Belle’s heart stuttered. She tried to breathe through it.

“I was a good mother to Charles,” Pascale said. “And Arthur. And Lorenzo. But I wasn’t a good mother to you. And I want to say that out loud. I need you to hear it. No excuses. Just truth.”

A beat. Then another.

“And I am so proud of the woman you became anyway.”

That broke something in Belle. She didn’t cry—but the tears burned hot in her chest, where all the old silences used to live.

Pascale looked up, eyes glassy. “Your work is brilliant. Your marriage is strong. And this baby—this baby is so lucky. Because he’ll be raised by someone who knows how to see people. Truly see them.”

Belle exhaled shakily.

“I want to earn my place again,” Pascale said. “Not as your mother by name. But as someone who supports you. Who shows up. Who listens, even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Max stayed quiet beside her. Charles had his hand loosely over his mouth. Arthur blinked hard. Lorenzo watched his mother like he was seeing her clearly for the first time.

Belle’s voice was small. “It hurt.”

“I know,” Pascale whispered. “And I’m sorry.”