#it's giving invisible string

[abbott976]

I've been thinking a lot about Zekina lately (shocker, I know) and @theangrypomeranian has me noticing just how often Zeke and Tina really interact throughout the show, specifically in terms of physical proximity.

But beyond that, there are so many amazing examples and moments where Zeke is truly just DOWN BAD for Tina and willing to do anything for her.

While we have the classic examples of The Mad Pooper and Mid-Day Run, there are a lot of other moments where Zeke shows how much he likes Tina!

For example, in Teen-a Witch (S7 Ep 3), when Tina notes that she feels Jimmy Jr likely responded to her new attitude and chocker necklace, while J-Ju doesn't seem convinced (even stating "eh, idk") Zeke interjects that he liked her new look and confidence.

Similarly, in The Landship (S6 Ep 2), we see Zeke tell Tina that she has a spicy and a not spicy side and that he likes both sides of her. He also at the start of this episode is the one to encourage her to "get some spice in ya girl!" and to let loose a bit. I think this just shows that while he is supportive of whatever side Tina has to give, he is also willing to encourage her to have fun and be more in tune with herself.

Throughout the show, we also see multiple instances where Zeke is an enthusiastic participant in the Belcher Sibling Shenanigans, like in The Kids Run the Restaurant (S3 Ep 20), Stand By Gene (S6 Ep 12) and Stuck in the Kitchen With You (S12 Ep 8). There are plenty of other good examples of this, but they all demonstrate that not only is Zeke accepting and supportive of Tina, but he is willing to collaborate with her and her siblings and finds fun in their mischief.

For us as an audience, I think a real turning point for Tina going from hating Zeke to beginning to see him grow on her as a friend is seen in The Oeder Games (S5 Ep 21), where Zeke famously tells Tina that he's "up to his butt" in how much he likes her and the J-Ju takes her for granted.

This moment really pushes us as an audience into a new perspective where we begin to see this trio in new lights. As the series continues, we see Zeke and Tina continue to develop a growing friendship, albeit slowly, through moments like The Taking of Funtime One Two Three (S9 Ep 2) where we see Tina seek Zeke out for his skills and see J-Ju as an afterthought to the situation.

There seems to just be a slow and steady building of Zeke growing on Tina and their friendship slowly coming together, and I love to see how throughout it all, Zeke never wavers in his care and support for her. He's just patiently waiting in the wings, but also doesn't seem to feel that being her friend is settling in any way. He just likes her and likes spending time with her however she will let him.

There are a ton of other examples I could give, but I think it just goes to show there are those little strings and pieces of them throughout the show if you are really looking for them.

[doodleddaisies]

Hehe I was saving this bc I knew

[starvinginbelair]

"Luke's mom was my math teacher, which is crazy. I met her when I was 14, and she goes, 'No, you can keep drumming on tables in math class, that's fine. I understand how it is, my son's a musician.' Little did I know that was Luke. Which is pretty crazy, like the syncronicity that was already happening, the alignment between just us as people, in the band, was already happening long before we even met."

— ashton irwin on the band's upbringing on artist friendly

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

That thing he does with the side of his mouth

[lacucarachapisser]

the idea of stranger! colin keeps appearing in your life and waits until there is the right time to say hello has been religiously altered my brain. he was so pathetic and sad and i kinda feel obliged to make him happy. at least in my head.

[sunni-stuff]

You, the butchers daughter, end up stalking your father's new hire.

The first time you see him, he’s hauling a side of beef off the truck like it weighs nothing, muscles taut beneath his apron. His broad shoulders stretch the fabric, veins running thick down his forearms as he grips the meat hook. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing strong arms marred with faded scars—some thin and clean, others jagged, stories you’ll never hear. His hands, wrapped in black gloves, are steady as he works, but you wonder what they’d feel like bare.

Then there’s the mask. Black, snug, covering everything from the bridge of his nose down, leaving only his sharp, calculating eyes visible. Dark and unreadable, they barely glance your way. You’ve tried to catch him slipping, maybe when he wipes sweat from his forehead or adjusts the apron strings that crisscross his powerful back, but he’s careful—never lets you see too much.

The tattoos peek out beneath his sleeves and creep along his collarbones where his shirt dips. Flames coil around his wrists, swallowing skulls with hollow eyes. A soldier, masked like him, grips a rifle among the chaos. A bomb mid-fall, grinning shark teeth, dog tags suspended in ink—each piece a fragment of something unspoken. You’ve glimpsed ink curling over the tendons of his neck, bold lines, and intricate designs that hint at a past you aren’t meant to know. It’s all war, death, and destruction, an unspoken story carved into his flesh. When he moves, the shadows shift over the ink, making it seem alive. You want to ask, to pry, but he’s as unreadable as the art on his skin

He doesn’t talk much, just nods when your father gives orders. The others joke around, laugh, make noise—but he’s silent, methodical, unsettling in the way he moves like he’s done this before. Like butchering meat is nothing new to him.

But what frustrates you the most? He never looks at you for more than a second. Never lingers, never smirks, never acknowledges the way you watch him. As if you’re invisible. And that, more than anything, makes you want to figure him out.

At first, it was just curiosity. No man had ever outright ignored you before—not when you batted your lashes, not when you "accidentally" brushed too close, not when you lingered just a little too long in his space.

But him? He barely acknowledged you. A nod if you were lucky. A grunt if you spoke directly to him. Most of the time, he just kept working, muscles flexing under his apron, strong hands wielding a cleaver with practiced ease.

The others—your father’s old hands, the regulars who came in for their weekly cuts—would’ve tripped over their feet to get your attention. They always had. You were used to the lingering stares, the awkward compliments, the way men fumbled through conversations just to keep you talking. So why didn't he?

It was maddening.

So, you did what any sane young woman would do.

You prodded. You poked. You tested.

You stood too close, pretending to inspect the marbled meat he was slicing, only for him to shift away without a word. You asked him pointless questions, just to hear his voice—low, rough, with an accent you couldn’t quite place—only for him to answer in as few words as possible before returning to work.

It became a game. You knocked things over in his path just to see if he’d catch them (he always did). You “forgot” something near his station just to have a reason to come back. You even tried teasing, playfully calling him mystery man under your breath.

Nothing.

Not a flinch, not a smirk, not even a flicker of amusement.

That should have been the end of it.

But then you started watching. Not just at work—no, you started watching him.

The way he left every night at the same time. The way he took the same route, never straying, never rushing. The way his head tilted slightly whenever he passed certain corners, as if he was listening.

It fascinated you. And when fascination turns to obsession, well…

That’s when you started following him.

You followed him—never too far, never too close—always careful, watching him move through the streets with an air of confidence that seemed to thrive in the quiet of the night. For weeks, this had become a routine, one that started innocently enough. Just a few blocks at first, just enough to ensure that he was who you thought he was. But over time, the habit deepened. Each night, you followed him further, until it became something you couldn’t help but do.

Yet, despite your best efforts, he never made any stops, never took any detours. He just kept walking, heading toward some destination that only he knew. And every time you reached the point where you would turn around, you still didn’t have any answers—no clue what he was up to or where he was going. Just that he moved through the night like someone who belonged there. Unfazed, untouchable.

Then one night, the weather turned.

The rain hit hard, cold droplets splattering against your skin, soaking through your jacket in seconds. You’d stopped for a split second—just long enough to get the damn zipper up, to pull the hood over your head—but in that moment, he'd vanished.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you cursed under your breath, glancing quickly down the wet street, searching for the familiar outline of his tall frame. But there was nothing. No sign of him.

“What the hell?” you muttered to yourself, your voice drowned out by the downpour. You couldn’t let him slip away. Not now, not after all this time.

You started to jog, your boots splashing in the puddles as your eyes darted left and right, scanning the alleyways and storefronts. Your breath came faster as you pushed yourself harder, frustration building. You weren’t going to lose him now.

Then, suddenly, your body was jerked backward, your breath caught in your throat as a strong hand pressed over your mouth. The air around you was thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and something darker, something more familiar.

Before you could even react, you were shoved hard against the cold brick of an alleyway wall, your back colliding with the rough surface, your head snapping back slightly from the impact. Your pulse spiked in your ears as panic started to claw at your chest, but the firm grip on your mouth held you silent, still.

For a second, everything went still. The rain beat against your jacket, heavy and relentless, but there was no sound, no movement—just the suffocating pressure of his hand over your mouth and the close proximity of his body.

You felt the heat radiating off him, the sheer strength of his presence as if the space between you was no longer your own. The tension in his arm, holding you against the wall, was undeniable. He was in control.

Your heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from the frustration, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the urge to finally break the silence between you. You had followed him, hunted him, and now here he was—this close. The tension was suffocating, and you couldn’t decide if you were going to scream or say something sharp.

But before you could gather your thoughts, his voice broke through the storm. Low, smooth, with an edge of something dark. “Thought you’d lost me, didn’t you?” His words came muffled through the mask, but the tone was unmistakable.

He didn’t seem in a rush, like he knew you were trapped in the moment. You didn’t even know how long he’d been standing there, or how he’d managed to close the distance between you so quickly. The rain drummed relentlessly on the alley’s pavement, but his eyes, those sharp, dark eyes, never wavered from you.

“Can’t say I’m impressed by your little game,” he murmured, fingers brushing against your cheek in a movement so deliberate it made your breath catch. “You follow me for weeks, but never thought of what might happen when you get too close.”

“Were you hoping to catch me doing something interesting?" he asked, his breath a warm tickle on your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. There was a calmness in his voice, like he was in complete command, and the way his body molded against yours told you he was used to people being in positions like this.

“I…” You swallowed, struggling to free your voice. “I wanted to see if you’d… notice me.” You hadn’t thought this far ahead. Why had you been following him? What had you hoped to find? You were just a silly girl who wanted the attention of a man who wanted nothing to do with you.

Simon’s laugh was low, almost quiet, but it carried a weight to it that you didn’t expect. It was rich with amusement, deep and rough, and it rumbled against the tension hanging between you both. The sudden sound caught you off guard, your breath catching in your throat as you tried to make sense of it.

For a moment, you were frozen, not sure whether to be annoyed or confused. Had you just made a fool of yourself in front of him? Why was he laughing?

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your nerves, but it didn’t work. His laughter still echoed in your head, and your voice came out shaky. "W-what’s so funny?"

He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, you could feel him shift slightly, his hand easing off your wrist but still close enough to make you aware of the power he held. Simon took a breath, the rain still pouring around you both, but his presence was like a shield, solid and immovable.

"You," he finally said, his voice quieter now, but the amusement was still there, like a shadow in his tone. "You think I didn’t notice you? You’ve been practically waving a flag." His fingers brushed lightly over your wrist, tracing the spot where he’d gripped you, his touch soft now, almost teasing.

"I wasn’t… I wasn’t obvious," you managed to protest, though it came out weaker than you’d like. You could feel your cheeks heating, your frustration mixing with something else you weren’t ready to admit.

"All this time, and you still think I didn’t know?" He shook his head, though you couldn't see his face behind that damn mask. “Sweetheart, you’ve been following me around like a lost puppy, and I was just waiting to see when you'd finally stop pretending.”

For a moment, you stood there, silence pressing in between you both, broken only by the sound of the rain pelting the alley around you. Simon’s words lingered, his laugh still echoing in your mind. You weren’t sure if you were frustrated or flustered or both, but you knew one thing for sure—he had misunderstood what you asked.

Finally, you spoke, your voice clear despite the uncertainty brewing inside you. “That’s not what I meant,” you muttered, taking a step back, shaking your head. You weren’t sure why, but you needed to ask, needed to get to the bottom of it. “Do you have a girlfriend?” you asked bluntly, your eyes never leaving his face.

Simon’s expression didn’t change much, his gaze still sharp but unbothered. “No,” he replied simply.

That answer made something inside you tighten, though you couldn’t quite pinpoint why. But you weren’t done. You shifted your weight, suddenly daring to ask the next question, the one you knew would make him uncomfortable. “Do you find me attractive?”

His eyes flickered for a split second, the usual guarded look breaking, but he nodded, his voice low. “Yes.”

The answer hung in the air like a challenge. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning, trying to connect the dots between what he said and what he did. “So why,” you demanded, “don’t you ever look at me? In the shop, I mean. Why don’t you notice me like the other guys do? They stare, flirt, and… well, pay attention.”

For the first time since you’d started this strange back-and-forth, Simon looked genuinely confused. He stepped back slightly, brows furrowing as he regarded you. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “I do pay attention.”

You blinked, taken aback by his response. “What do you mean?”

Simon’s gaze softened just a fraction as he tilted his head. “During lunch... I cut your deli the way you like it—slices thin enough you can stack ‘em. And when I’m working, I stay in your section. Always have.” He paused, his expression almost apologetic. “Flirting with my boss’s daughter at work isn’t exactly the best move. But…”

You stared at him, your mind trying to make sense of his words.

He stepped closer, his presence filling the space between you both, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But work’s over now, lass. And here we are.”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the real meaning of his words sinking in, and suddenly, the whole night felt like it had shifted, like the game you were playing had just changed.

You opened your mouth, about to say something—anything—to break the silence, to clarify what had just happened, but before you could speak, Simon moved with startling speed.

One moment, you were standing there, staring up at him, and the next, he had lifted you effortlessly into his arms. Your breath caught in your throat as his strong hands gripped you, pulling you flush against his chest, his heat seeping into your bones despite the chill of the rain.

“Your house or mine?”

[screampied]

☆ cw. fem! reader, mating press, soft dom choso, squirtīng, p spanking, dirty talk, size kink, praise, mdni.

you tell choso it’s practically impossible to make you orgasm – and he ends up making you squirt instead.

“really?” he’d huff in a ginger cooing voice, sucking his teeth together as he watches a thick portion of his cock disappear between your sweet soddened folds. you let off a gasping moan once you glance down, getting a wide view of him easing his hefty weight into you. choso’s got you in mating press—a position he’s been wanting to try with you for a while, and with the way you were easily clenching around him had his entire body twitching. as he’s being as gentle as possible, he lets off a soft grunt before placing a bare hand on your tummy. “so you mean like . . never, baby?”

“n- never,” you inhale an incoming breath. your legs were sprawled ‘n spread — creating a stretched ‘v’ shape with your trembling feeble limbs. choso’s got a hand wrapped around his aching shaft before he starts to gradually sink inside of you deeper. “u..ughhh,” you hiss out, hearing your own wanton squelches shriek right out of your sopping pussy. choso smears a thumb down your entrance and you could see the cunt drunken grin starting to warp against his lips. “fuck, jus make me cum choso. like that, harder.”

“okay,” choso gruffly groans, his swollen sack already starting to mercilessly slap against your entrance. it’s loud numerous ‘thwap!’ ‘s and your glassy eyes widen the moment he slowly lifts up your leg just a bit higher, sexily throwing his head back with a carnal eye-flickering-roll. “just hold still,” and with one hand, he softly caresses your chin. “ ‘n keep those pretty eyes on me. gooood girl.”

intently, dark mousy eyes bore into you whilst he’s slowly driving his inside of you. you’re whimpering, already starting to hear the growling snarling creaks of the wooden bed frame ring against your ears.

“t- thaaat’s it,” choso grunts, and you can feel his honed hips tilt inward. he’s big, and with the gaping stretch he’d always create—it’s got invisible cogwheels spinning ‘n turning at the insides of your empty brain. it doesn’t take him long before he’s sensually pounding you with deep loving thorough thrusts, making sure he’s buried at the hilt. choso’s heavily panting with raspy breaths, clawing a hand through his shaggy black strands. he’s so pretty, and you couldn’t help but stare at him whilst he’s tenderly ravaging your sweet gripping walls. choso’s hair flawlessly of his flows down his narrow shoulders before he moans. “goddd, so good. doin’ so good.”

with a cute shrilling ‘oh!’ the moment his bulbous tip meanly slams into your sweetened sensitive spots, your jaw dangles agape.

he’s already reached it, and every time his body crashes into yours at full speed at such miles per fucking hour . . your skin sticks to stick against his like glue. smacking smacks of fleshy mounds gum against each other as he’s jackhammering his slim hips up and down before you shriek. “choso… ohmygod, right there. fuck me, fuh—”

“quiet,” he whispers, grabbing your chin. your eyes meet his, and as raven bangs string down his eyes, choso gives you a quick kiss. it’s sloppy, and you moan while he’s still buried balls deep. each risqué stroke has you dizzy, craving for more and as his tongue curls through the layout of your sweltering hot mouth, he briefly pulls away. choso huskily grunts, his powerful hits against your cunt creating loud squelches that resounded off the thinly-made walls. “f- fuck, hear that, baby? think she’s trying to hah . . get a word in.”

choso’s weight remains hovering over your body as he’s pounding into you. you moan, feeling his hot breath waft against your skin as he buries his face into the cove of your left shoulder. a hand reaches between your legs, and he starts to smear all kinds of circles ‘n shapes against your glittery wet cunt. wetly, he’s lightly smacking his palm against your stuffed full entrance, droplets of your honeyed juices splattering against his hand.

‘psh’ after ‘psh’ and choso grunts, hearing how you were not only vocal from your mouth, but in between your legs too. “so pretty,” he whispers, licking a stripe down your neck, softly nibbling a playful munch at your skin. “c’mon, baby. ‘m gonna need you to make a mess for me.”

oh, his hips were just the definition of fervent though.

your pussy’s hysterically gurgling out desperate sloppy pleads of want and need as your nails decorate his toned back with many many scratches. choso’s back was your own personal canvas—and he loved whenever your fingers would drag down his skin—painting areas of his flesh every single time. “cho- chosooo,” you whine out, tossing your arms over him. you could feel his back muscles tense, feeling his askew hips deepen its strenuous hits against your pussy. it was orgasmic – his rhythm alone, and your toes were already curled, mouth dropped, eyes bulged. “ ‘m gonna cum, make me cum choso.”

“uh huh. like that, you got it,” he purrs, feeling your cute legs starting to grow limp. he’s so nice with his hips, making sure he’s got the perfect angle. choso’s cock runs through you languidly, it’s slow but steady but also speedily fast. you could feel his stout cock repeatedly trying to kiss it’s way at your fluttering g-spot before you let off a trilling whine. “easy, easyyy girl,” he cups your face, a fat thumb stroking the right side of your mouth. “hey. look at me, baby. you got it,” choso repeats, and as he’s lewdly moaning right with you, bodies slamming in such luscious rapture, choso sprinkles kisses near your chin. “give it t’ me. be my messy baby, thaaaat’s it.”

right at his exact words—you felt yourself tightening up. . although something within you bursts, and you bite down on your jaw. it’s sudden, it’s so sudden that your eyes start rolling the second you realize you’re gushing down on his cock. a shaky breath leaves out of choso as he instantaneously pauses his hips—stilling his cock inside of you without moving anymore.

pretty doe-enlarged eyes with hearts swarming in his irises focuses primarily on you, and you could hear him whining out a ‘holy shiiiit’ while you mewl out your oh-so euphoric release.

it felt like forever but it was only for about three seconds, and you’re stupidly cross-eyed, moaning once choso starts to gradually pull out. “h- heh, baby chose to be wet today, huh,” and you let off a sobbing whimper once you feel him starting to smear his tip against your leaky cunt.

you’re drooling from your glossy puffed slit, and as he’s starting to politely smack his hardened cock onto your twitching heat, choso grunts. ‘you’re sooo pretty like this,’ the exact phrase that repeats in his brain like a mantra.

“let go, good girl. keep goin’. make me just as messy as you, princess,” and your brain merely short circuits. the elatedly shocking friction of his plump tip playfully hitting your soaked cunt has nothing but cute babbles departing from your babbling lips. choso drags his swollen cockhead down further, stopping at the bottom of your clit before letting out a shuddering, ‘phew.’

“c- choso, fuck,” you moan, still feeling staticky tingles roam through every vein of your body. that was unlike any feeling you’ve felt before. as his eyes soften, meeting your gaze—choso’s nudely glistening body shadows over yours. seconds later, he slowly trails his head down, propping himself between your legs. through hazy lensed eyes, you peer down, peeping at him while finding a hand of yours pawing its way through his tangled inky strands of hair. “mhh.”

“baby,” choso whispers hoarsely, his voice a bit rough and gritty from moaning for so long. such detail made you throb and he knew it too. leisurely, he’s beginning to lick a straight slope up your weeping cunt.

he can’t help but give it a open stare for a few seconds, taking your beauty from between your legs alllll in. it’s so pretty ‘n puffed — dribbling from the sides of your slick own arousal that shot out a shimmering geyser just a few seconds ago.

you’re tender, and he can’t help but slather his hot pink tongue between the crevices of your folds. “think . . you can be my sloppy girl one time?” and as he gives your pussy one quick french kiss, he pouts at you with a wry pussy drunk grin.

“pretty please?”

[tonycries]

Brooklyn Baby - G.S.

Synopsis. Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades. Said Suguru doesn’t want to fuck anyone else but you. He couldn’t give less of a fuck if anyone walked in right now. In fact, a small part of him wishes someone would.

Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, rock star! AU, fwb-to-lovers, unprotected sex, oral sex (male receiving), fingering (female receiving), Suguru is sinfully sexy and in l*ve with you, Satoru is a menace, pet names (darling, my girl), Suguru has tattoos and piercings, swearing.

Word count. 3.2k (DAMN I got carried away)

A/N. Happy Valentine’s day! *throws somewhat-fluffy smut at you and leaves* 

Art by @_3aem on X.

Also, wild west! AU longfic with someone dropping on Sunday night (EST), keep your eyes peeled yeehaw.

Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades.

You did. Your fans did. Hell, you’ve even caught your overworked band manager sneaking a few too many glances. 

And, you conclude, the groupies currently batting their lashes at him definitely did. 

You watch as they swarm to him during open rehearsal, giggling at his pretty smiles. 

Whatever, part of the job anyway.

It’s not like you two were dating. Yeah, a few fucks here and there throughout the years - but what’s one to do when on the road and in such close proximity with a guy that’s practically walking sex? 

Trying not to scowl, you turn away from the commotion, continuing to tune the strings of your trusty Fender. You’ve had your fair share of die-hard fans, so lately why did it bother you so much when Suguru entertained their thinly-veiled advances? 

“Ohoho~ Quite a look on your face there, why don’t you go and caress his biceps too?~” you hear idiot brigade member #1, Gojo Satoru, cackle from beside you. 

If looks could kill, Satoru would’ve been 6 feet under and rotting already. “I thought you stopped writing band fanfiction, Satoru.” you raise a brow. 

“THAT WAS ONE TIME.” he whines dramatically, clinging onto you and shaking you back and forth as if to knock the memory of his Wattpad tendencies out of you. “WHY ATTACK ME JUST CUZ YOU’RE JEALOUS? C’MOOON ADMIT IT.”

You were not jealous. 

Suguru knew you were jealous.

Sneaking a glance, he had to fight the urge to coo at the adorable little furrow of your brows. How unprofessional would it be if he walked off mid-conversation to kiss that pout off your lips?

He knows it’s just sex for you. But - foolishly - every time he held you he could only hope that he ran through your mind as often as you did through his. It elated Suguru to know you were getting that worked up over him. 

That is until, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Satoru draping himself all over you, whispering god-knows-what into your ears. 

The rational part of Suguru knows Satoru is a very touchy person, but why was he so…close? And why weren’t you pushing him off?

Smile tightening into something a little more artificial, he turns to the girls fawning over him. “Well, ladies, I’m sorry to say I’ve gotta go practice before Shoko yells at me again. I’ll see you all in the front row, yeah?” he lies smoothly, disappointed whines following him as he makes a beeline for your figure.

“Well! What have we here, Satoru, are you done tuning?” Suguru pops a head between yours and Satoru’s overly close ones, interrupting whatever conversation you were heatedly whispering. What was so important that you two needed to be that close to talk anyway?

He narrows his eyes at Satoru’s surprised ones, an invisible conversation taking place between them before Satoru cracks a smug grin. “Alright alright. I’ll go tune my guitar.” he rolls his eyes, heading for his electric blue Gibson. 

Your confused gaze meets the twinkling eyes now boring down at you. “Done with the meet-n-greet already?” you question, eyes darting to the group now watching you two like hawks.

The smile on Suguru’s face grows, “Yeah, remembered I didn’t do my pre-concert rituals right.”

“Oh?”

“Wanna help me with it?”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. Quickly setting down your guitar, he drags you out into the corridor - hand tightly in yours and pointedly ignoring Satoru’s wolf-whistles. 

Hallway sex is overrated, Suguru believes - which is why he heads for the dressing room. 

“Pre-concert rituals” his ass, Suguru just thinks he might pass away if he doesn’t get his hands on you right now. Make you feel like his.

It’s not long before the door is locked and he has you bent over the vanity, knuckle-deep in your dripping cunt. 

“S-Sugu! Why now? The concert- Hah-” You gasp in pleasure as two long fingers probe inside of you, ruthlessly searching for the spot that Suguru knows would have your toes curling and eyes watering deliciously. 

“Fuck the concert, darling. Barely even started and already so wet f’me.” he drawls out over your whimpers. “Wanted you to come over y’know? And save me from those groupies trying to get in my pants.” 

In your lust-hazed mind, you find the words to respond to him, “You s-seemed to - hah - be enjoying that.”

“Of course not.” he leaves a trail of kisses down your back, “Wasn’t my favorite girl.” he whispers into your heated skin.

He’s being rougher than usual, he knows. In the back of his mind he wonders what it was that he was so pissed at. But all thoughts of that are thrown out the window once he presses into that plushy spot inside your wet core, drawing a sinful whine from your mouth. There.

Pulling back to tease your folds with your own slick, he plunges into your swollen pussy once more, easily hitting that spot over and over. 

“Hngh- Suguru, more!” you grind your hips to meet his merciless rhythm, clenching around his fingers. 

You feel as if you’re losing your sanity when he adds in another finger, walls burning as your cunt stretches around his thick rings. 

Suguru was definitely losing his sanity. 

Anyone could walk by. The concert was about to start any second now. But he couldn’t give less of a fuck, too focused on how his fingers were being sucked back in every time he pulls out, your pretty pussy dripping all over his numerous bracelets.

He has to hold back a moan at the way your ass jiggled every time your hips buck to meet his fingers. 

Leaning down over you, he hums lowly into your ear “So desperate for me, hm?”. Pressing the erection straining against his trousers against you, he huffs out “I’m the same, darling. You drive me absolutely mad.”

He feels the way you squirm in impatience at the large outline of his dick, raising your ass in an attempt to get more friction. Eyes crinkling in satisfaction, he pushes down on his girl’s slutty hips, cold rings digging into the small of your waist. 

“Now now…not yet.” he tuts mockingly. 

“Please, Suguru. Please let me cum.”

Increasing his pace, abusing your g-spot relentlessly, Suguru knew by your breathy moans of his name that you were getting close. 

His hand moves from your waist, leaving behind purple marks to remember him by. They wander the expanse of your body - groping your curves, and pinching your nipples through your thin top - delighting in your mewls.

God, you were perfect. He really needed to take his time with you later.

Suguru’s hands, nail polish chipped and fingers calloused from years of playing, finally rest on your face. He pushes your cheeks together, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth and forcing you to look at him through the vanity mirror in front of you. Your dazed eyes meet his darkened ones. 

Suguru was so feral. The man that was usually the personification of grace and poise was falling apart at the seams. His eyes wild and grin spread devilishly as his fingers abuse your cunt never-endingly.

“Look at me when you cum.” he murmurs raspily into your neck, teeth ghosting over your rapid pulse.

You don’t know what it is that sends you over the edge - maybe it was his lustful words, or the way his fingers quirked just right inside of you. All you know is you’re cumming all over Suguru’s fingers, hands clutching the vanity table and eyes locked with Suguru’s in the mirror, mouth dropping into a gasp.

“Fuck! Suguru- Suguru!” you whimper.

Suguru watches in wonder as you ride out your orgasm, using him. He couldn’t give less of a fuck if anyone walked in right now. In fact, a small part of him wishes someone would.

Let them see how beautifully you fall apart because of him.

Finally pulling out, Suguru inspects his fingers. “Now now. That won’t do.” he purrs. 

His tongue erotically licks up your juices covering his rings, still holding eye contact with you through the mirror. He catches the way your thighs press together at his lewd act. ‘Oh? Want some?“ he teases. 

Before you can retort, he’s bullying his fingers into your mouth, making you taste yourself. 

The way you moan around him sends blood rushing straight to his cock. Fuck, he has to steel himself from cumming in his pants right then and there - that wouldn’t be very “sex icon” of him. 

You have no idea what you do to him.

Not willing to wait any longer, he leisurely takes a seat on the spacious vanity sofa. You whine at the loss of contact before catching the predatory look in his eyes. Suguru was going to eat you alive. 

“Come on, darling. Show me how badly you want me.” he grins, legs spreading and prominent bulge on display. 

You take a second to admire the view. Tousled black hair falling enticingly along Suguru’s muscled shoulders, tattooed dragon peeking through where his shirt was messed up. His eyes lustful, and locked on you. 

He was devastatingly handsome. Your mouth waters at the chance to get what so many people would kill for.

Suguru chuckles as you struggle to unbuckle his belt - did rock stars have to always wear such complicated trousers? 

Finally, you pull them down along with his boxers to expose his creamy thighs. Suguru’s throbbing erection lays on his abs, flushed a delicate pale pink.

Your pussy quivers with excitement as you press wet kisses to Suguru’s leaking head, precum dripping down his length to where you’d gently grasped him. A strangled hiss leaves his mouth as you swirl your tongue around the slit. You find yourself lost in his heady taste - he tastes so good.

“Having fun, darling? C’mon now, use me the way you want.” he murmurs, need laced into his voice.

You’ve never gotten used to how big Suguru is. Soft groans leave his mouth as you flatten your tongue and take him in inch by inch, eyes locked with his blown-out ones.

Suguru’s back arches as the heat of your mouth envelops him, hands bunching your hair into a messy ponytail. His pornographic groans echo across the dressing room as you suck on his cock, tongue swirling in just the way you knew he liked.

He can’t even catch his breath with the way you bob your head so heavenly, sucking the soul out of him. It drives him wild to think about how he’s got his lead guitarist on her knees, choking on his cock as your fans wait outside. 

Suguru’s eyes roll to the back of his head as you pop off his cock to take his heavy balls into your mouth, moaning around them as you suck on both erotically.

Shit, he was really feeling it today. 

Through the bangs now sticking to his forehead, he makes out the way your thighs grind against each other for relief. 

You were, too.

If this keeps up he really will lose his sanity.

“As much as I’d love to paint your pretty face with my cum, I think we both prefer it inside, no?” he grits out, cock twitching at the strings of spit and precum connecting you to him as he pulls you off. 

“Need you inside me so badly.” you nod, brain foggy and filled with only Suguru.

He’s quick to lift you into his lap, resting your ass against his pulsing cock, sly grin spreading at the way you’re already so fucked out. 

Suguru feels like he could cum just from the sensation of your juices smearing all over his length, pussy dripping and aching for his throbbing cock. 

“Oh yeah? How bad?” he purrs, eyes half-lidded and already knowing the answer.

“Please. I want you to fuck me so badly, Suguru.” 

“Badly enough that you’d fuck me out there - where everyone is? Show ‘em who I belong to?”

“Yes.” 

At your whimper, Suguru thrusts fully inside you, a moan of relief leaving you both as you finally get what you’ve been craving for. 

“Shit, so tight. Always so good for me, darling.”

Once you start, it’s hard to stop, Suguru finds. 

It happened when he first fucked you in high school - in his car after your first show, running on adrenaline and teenage hormones. And, years later, it’s happening now as he sheathes himself in your wet cunt. 

He just can’t get enough.

He fucks you animalistically, cock ramming in and out of your hole in a way that makes it feel like you’re missing something without him. Nothing in the world other than your two connected bodies. He feels you clamping down on him deliciously, ego growing at you struggling to accommodate his size. 

“F-fuck, darling. Hah- It’s s’tight. Take it like my good girl.”

“Hngh- Suguru, faster!” you groan, fingers delicately playing with the nipple piercings peeking out of his barely-buttoned shirt, euphoric at his drawn-out moans. 

Unlike Satoru - who takes off his shirt every chance he gets onstage - Suguru was one to shy away from showing skin, slutty piercings and tattoos hidden to the world. It just makes it all the more satisfying as you lick a long stripe along the dragon on his shoulder. 

Feels like your little secret. You wanted to be the only one to see this ethereal sight.

“Ah- So good, darling.” Suguru leans back, allowing you more room to play with him as you please. Cock twitching - so close - as you bore into his eyes, sucking his flashy piercings. 

He ramps up his pace, bouncing you on his cock in a way that was carnal. It was so feral, the way his balls sting as they smack your ass, a ring of spit and precum forming around his base. 

His cock aches for release, but he wants to see you cum first. His pretty girl, cumming all over his throbbing cock.

You pull yourself off his swollen nipples and attach your mouth with his, tongues swirling sensually as he kisses you like he needed you to breathe. 

He’s almost as unforgiving with his mouth as he is with his cock. Almost.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“YOOO I don’t know if ‘pre-concert rituals’ was a code-word for something else but we’re on in twenty minutes.” the unmistakable voice of Suguru’s best friend - and occasional bane-of-his-existence - made you two jump apart. 

“The ultimate cockblock.” Suguru sighs out - his pace, however, does not slow down. Each harsh thrust makes it difficult to muffle your yelps of pleasure from Satoru, who was still calling for you two from outside.

Noticing your predicament, Suguru grins dangerously. “Oh? My poor girl finds it hard to stop her moans? Aww, better try harder unless you want dear Satoru finding out.” he mocks in your ear. 

Both humiliated and turned on by his words, your dripping pussy clenches around his cock. He lets out a choked-up groan, biting hard into the crook of your neck to stop it.

A satisfied smile spreads across your face, “Who should try harder now, Suguru?”

Ah, perfect. You were perfect, perfect for him.

As Satoru’s yells about “cutting a chunk out of Suguru’s pay” disappear across the hallway, both of you let out exhales of relief.

“Dangerous game you played there, mister.” you raise a brow, teasingly.

He chuckles out, before pulling you to him closer by the waist. Lips ghosting over your own, he whispers “Only with you, my darling.” 

Slightly more clear-headed but still dripping with lust, you meet the bounce of Suguru’s hips with your own. Eyes still locked with yours, he stuffs you with every inch - tip kissing your cervix so painfully good. 

The steady slapping of skin and synchronized moans fill the room, blocking out the cheering of the audience awaiting your band. 

Yet, the air crackled with something different this time. For the first time, it didn’t just feel like just mindless fucking.

Bite mark on your neck stinging, you could feel Sugurus heartbeat thundering under your touch - synchronized with your own.

In this moment it felt like just you two in this world. 

You wanted to be the only one in his world. Not his fangirls, not some manager, not anyone else. 

Maybe that was the reason for your courage, feeling like everything has finally come to a boiling point. 

“S-Suguru.” you breathe out as you feel yourself getting closer. 

“Mhm?” brows furrowed, he looks up at you with a tenderness in his eyes that does not translate to the merciless cadence of his hips. 

“Be mine.”

And that’s all Suguru ever wanted. 

With a final hard thrust of his cock, he pulls you into a searing kiss that sends you both over the edge. He cums in hot spurts, thick ropes of seed filling your quivering cunt. It was feral - and it made you feel like his. 

Suguru’s seed drips down the side of his length, forming a white ring at his base as he fucks it deeper into you, letting you ride out your highs together.

As your climaxes bate, he buries his face in your neck, kissing softly over the mark from before. “To be yours is everything I could ever want, darling.” he breathes out, hugging you closer as if to hide this vulnerable moment. But you feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin.

Embracing him, you gather his beautiful black locks in your hand, fingers deftly taking the hair tie around your wrist to tie his long hair into a messy ponytail. 

Pulling back, you admire Suguru’s angelic features. Face flushed, lips swollen, and dark eyes half-lidded as he stares up at you in surprise.

“Wanted to see your pretty face.” you huff out a low laugh.

The expression on Suguru’s face is indescribable, such pure adoration in his eyes. 

Voice low, he murmurs words meant only for you, “I…I’m in lov-” 

“HEYYY I’m serious, stop doing the devil’s tango and GET THE FUCK OUT.” Satoru’s voice bellows once again through the door, shattering the little bubble you and Suguru had found refuge in.

“Ah- um-”

“You-”

Both of you stammer out at once, chuckling at how shy you were acting with one another even after all that had transpired in this room.

“We should probably go, before Satoru and Shoko pop a blood vessel.” Suguru jokes. You laugh out in agreement as he carries you tenderly to the washroom, his interrupted words weighing heavily on both your minds. It’s okay, you have time. 

Rapidly cleaned up and dressed, Suguru stops, a hand on the dressing room doorknob. “”Hey..” he starts almost-hesitantly, “After the concert, would you maybe want to-”

“Yes.” you interrupt, excitement lacing your voice. 

Chuckling in pure euphoria as you both exit, your smiles turn more sheepish as you’re faced with a bored-looking Shoko and an impatient Satoru tapping his foot. “You horny lil’ fuckers almost missed the show, think of my poor fans~” he exclaims, though the glee in his eyes at your intertwined hands was very evident.

“Hope the sex was good at least.” Shoko drones out, eyes flitting over your guilty flushed faces. 

‘Oh yeah, and Suguru - next time you dump your fangirls on me, I chop your balls off.“ she chirps out, pointing her drumsticks threateningly at his neck as you all head back.

Blinding lights. 

Deafening screams.

Hair pulled into a messy ponytail, he was fatally beautiful onstage.

Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades. 

But he only wanted to fuck you.

A/N. MMMMM long-haired men.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[leejenowrld]

my christmas love

pairing — dad! jung jaehyun x oc

word count — 5.8k

genre — smut, fluff, explicit sexual content, soft sex, dirty talk, praise, the softest dad! jaehyun ever. prepare for your cheeks to hurt due to how much you’re smiling

synopsis — it’s the early hours of christmas morning, the house still and quiet, your kids asleep down the hall, but you and jaehyun can’t resist each other. tangled in the sheets, the soft glow of christmas lights spilling through the window, he fucks you slow and deep, his hand over your mouth to stifle the moans threatening to slip free. every thrust is deliberate, every roll of his hips leaving you trembling as he whispers filthy promises into your ear—reminding you that you’re his, and on a morning meant for giving, he’s the only one who gets to have you like this.

[fic ml here]

The house feels different on Christmas morning, like it holds its breath in anticipation. Everything exists in a kind of suspended quiet—warm, still, waiting. The glow of the tree downstairs lingers through the dark, the faintest twinkle filtering up the staircase, the stockings hung neatly beneath it, already stuffed with small treasures you spent weeks collecting. And while the world outside feels cold, coated in frost and snowflakes clinging to windows, this house—your home—is filled with a kind of tender warmth, the kind that settles deep and lingers long after the gifts are unwrapped.

It’s always the same this time of year, a quiet joy that builds long before the morning itself: the late-night wrapping sessions, the secret whisper of scissors gliding through paper in the middle of the night, Jaehyun holding down tape with far more pride than precision, his brows furrowed as he muttered about “getting better at this next year.” You’d watched him with soft amusement, quietly fixing bows when he wasn’t looking, the two of you stealing lazy kisses between unwrapping rolls of ribbon.

This morning is no different, except now, Jaehyun lies beside you, the weight of his body warm and steady, his chest rising and falling in soft, even breaths. You can hear it faintly—the quiet creak of floorboards as one of your kids rolls over in bed, and it makes you smile, already able to picture them. The way their hair sticks up in sleepy disarray, their cheeks still flushed with sleep, small hands clutching their blankets as they dream of the morning to come. You’d tucked them in last night together, Jaehyun humming quietly as he bent low to kiss foreheads, his voice soft as he whispered promises of Santa, of surprises waiting under the tree.

Jaehyun as a father is something that still overwhelms you in ways you don’t know how to put into words. He’s steady and patient, always there to tie shoes or wipe away tears, to carry their small bodies on his back until his arms ache. He loves fiercely but quietly, always slipping small notes into lunchboxes or adjusting scarves so they don’t fall loose. You’ve caught him kneeling beside toy kitchens and dollhouses, pretending to drink invisible tea with a smile that makes your heart twist painfully in your chest. At night, when the world quiets, he reads stories aloud, his voice low and soothing, lulling your little ones to sleep while you watch from the doorway, overwhelmed by the kind of love you didn’t know could exist.

And Christmas—it’s Jaehyun’s favorite, something you didn’t expect when you first met him. He treats it like a sacred tradition, something delicate and worth protecting. He’s the one who insists on stringing lights across the house, who lifts your kids up on his shoulders so they can place the star at the top of the tree, who carefully leaves half-eaten cookies out so they’ll wake up believing, just a little longer, in magic. “They’re only small for a while,” he told you once, after you’d found him carefully rearranging their stockings for the third time. “I want them to remember this feeling forever.”

Now, curled beneath the blankets in the dim glow of morning, you feel him shift behind you, the warmth of his body wrapping around yours like a second skin. His arm slides tighter around your waist, his palm splayed wide over your stomach, fingers spreading like he’s trying to anchor you there, closer, closer still. He exhales softly, lips finding your bare shoulder with a tenderness that feels practiced, instinctive, like kissing you is as natural to him as breathing. His mouth lingers there, warm and lazy, the faintest brush of his nose tracing along your skin before he murmurs, “You’re awake,” the words low and rough with sleep, vibrating softly against you. His voice settles deep, threading through your bones, wrapping you in a warmth that feels heavier than the blankets, more intimate than the dark stillness of the room.

“Mm,” you hum, a small smile tugging at your lips as you press yourself closer into him, your body fitting against his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Just listening.”

He doesn’t ask what you’re listening to. He knows. The house holds its breath in the quiet, every second stretching thin and fragile. You’re listening for the soft shuffle of small feet across the hall, for the rustle of sheets being kicked off, for a cough or a sniffle or the creak of a door that would signal the end of this stolen moment. You’re listening to the absence of it, to the sweet silence of your children still lost in sleep, their steady breathing faint through the thin walls. It’s a habit you can’t shake, your ears always tuned to their presence, always one sound away from slipping back into mom-mode.

But Jaehyun can feel it—how half your attention lingers down the hall, how part of you teeters between surrendering to him and being ready to pull away. His smile presses into the curve of your neck, warm and knowing, as his hand slides slowly along your waist, fingers tracing aimless, feather-light patterns that make you shiver. “They’re gonna wake up soon,” he mutters, his voice a teasing rasp, though there’s a promise there too, soft but possessive.

“I know,” you whisper, tilting your head just slightly to give him more, your breath hitching as his lips trail higher, up the line of your neck to brush just beneath your jaw. Your eyes flutter shut, your body melting into the way he holds you, into the soft weight of him pressed against your back.

But Jaehyun doesn’t stop—he never does. His hand disappears beneath the sheets, slipping low to spread wide across your stomach, his touch heavier now, deliberate. He pulls you back against him, hips flush to yours, so close you can feel the heat of him, the unmistakable hardness pressing insistently against you. His breath fans warm over your ear, each word curling into you like smoke. “Not yet, though,” he murmurs, voice laced with that dark, lazy grin that always unravels you. “Right now, you’re mine.”

The edge of his teeth grazes your neck, deliberate and featherlight, just enough to make you shiver as the air leaves your lungs in a quiet, uneven breath. His hand dips lower, fingertips teasing circles along your skin, skimming the space where your waistband meets your hips, his touch unhurried but possessive, as if mapping every inch of you for himself. He doesn’t let you answer, doesn’t give you room to protest—he only lets the silence stretch thin, sharpening the tension in the dark until it hums between you like something alive.

The bed shifts beneath his weight as he moves on top of you, his chest brushing yours as he rises just enough to sit back on his heels, the blankets slipping from his shoulders in one slow sweep. The pale glow filtering through the window casts shadows across his bare skin, sharp lines where muscle flexes beneath the surface, his eyes dark as they sweep over you. Without a word, his hands find the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head in one fluid motion before he leans back down, his hands sliding beneath the fabric of your own top.

“Jae—” you whisper, the sound more breath than word, but he only silences you with the barest shake of his head, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he pushes your shirt up, his knuckles grazing your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“You sure they’ll stay asleep?” you murmur, your voice low, hesitant, the question pulled from you as his mouth finds the space just below your collarbone, warm and wet, leaving kisses that linger and heat your skin like a slow burn.

“Yeah,” Jaehyun murmurs against you, his voice dark and lazy, vibrating where his lips press against you. “If we stay quiet.”

“Jaehyun…”

“They slept past their bedtime yesterday,” he reminds you, his tone soft but teasing as his thumb drags along the sensitive curve of your waist. “Completely engrossed in all those Christmas movies. Trust me—” He presses a kiss between your breasts, his teeth grazing just enough to make your body arch faintly into him. “—they’ll be flat out until later.”

You hesitate for the barest moment, torn between the logic of it and the warmth already building low in your stomach, but Jaehyun looks up at you then, his gaze steady and heavy with intent, and something in your chest gives.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word slipping from you like surrender.

The grin that flickers across his face is quick and devastating, gone almost as soon as it appears as he leans in to kiss you—soft at first, like a test, his lips brushing against yours so gently it borders on teasing. But then you sigh into it, your arms winding around his neck, and Jaehyun deepens the kiss, his mouth claiming yours with something darker, more consuming. It lingers—unhurried and heavy with want—his tongue sweeping against yours as his weight presses you further into the mattress.

His hand finds your waist again, his palm sliding over the dip of your stomach to your hips, fingers digging into the bare skin there as he tugs you flush against him, letting you feel the hard press of him where he grinds against you through the thin barrier of fabric.

“Jaehyun, we can’t…” you whisper again, a half-hearted protest, the words shaky as his mouth trails down to your jaw, your neck, each kiss slower, wetter, leaving a heat in their wake that has your body squirming beneath him. “Our babies—”

He only grins against your skin, unbothered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “Then be quiet, baby. Don’t want to wake them up, do you?”

The words send a jolt through you, molten and sharp, sinking low and deep, until all you can do is cling to him as he rolls his hips against you, the movement purposeful enough to make you bite down on your lip to stifle the sound threatening to escape. Jaehyun pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze lingering on your face as his hand slips lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your clothes, dragging them down with slow, deliberate intent.

“You’re mine for now,” he whispers, his voice soft, but it carries weight, curling around you as he claims every inch of you with his touch, his gaze, his words. “Don’t think about anything else. Just me.”

Now, there’s nothing innocent about the way he presses into you, his bare chest flush against yours, pinning you into the mattress like he’s daring you to challenge him, to tell him to stop. The deliberate drag of his hips is slow and devastating, a rhythm that borders on cruel—each roll sinks him deeper, forcing you to take all of him, inch by inch, until you’re trembling beneath him, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in a desperate effort to keep the sounds inside.

The only light comes from the window, where the neighbors’ Christmas lights bleed through the curtains in soft, shifting patterns, painting streaks of gold and crimson across his shoulders, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. The bed creaks faintly, betraying each movement, the sound almost sinful in the stillness of the house. The sweat-slicked sheets are tangled around your thighs, twisting as your legs lock tighter around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

“Jaehyun!!!” you scream, the word dragged from your lips like a confession, a sound too raw, too loud for a house steeped in this kind of silence. It splits the air, reckless and dangerous, and for a moment, everything freezes.

He reacts before you can take another breath, his hand clamping over your mouth, fingers spread firm across your cheek, pressing you down, holding you still. He pauses, just long enough to meet your gaze, his weight anchoring you to the mattress as he looms above you. The gold and crimson light spilling through the window catches on his face, shadowing the sharpness of his jaw, the focus in his eyes—dark, unrelenting, like he’s daring you to make another sound.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, the single word falling low and measured, heavy with warning. His thumb brushes over your cheek, almost tender, a contrast to the authority in his voice. He leans closer, his mouth grazing your ear as he says, softer now but no less firm, “You’ll wake our babies.”

The words hit like a stone dropped into water, rippling through you, sharp and grounding. Our babies. Your chest rises in a shuddering breath beneath his weight, the sound muffled against his palm. The reminder of them—safe, sleeping, dreaming their little Christmas dreams just down the hall—only sharpens the tension that coils low in your stomach, the ache that pulses where Jaehyun fills you, so deep it feels impossible.

You can only gulp, eyes wide, breath hitching against his palm as he pushes forward again, slow and unrelenting. The stretch of him leaves you trembling, heels digging into the backs of his thighs in a silent plea for more. You don’t dare speak—you can’t—but Jaehyun sees it anyway, the need written across your face, in the way your fingers claw at his shoulders, your body arching into him despite the weight holding you down.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper, like he’s talking only to himself. “You feel that? The way I’m stretching you open?” He groans softly when you clench around him, his forehead dropping to yours, damp hair brushing your temple. “You like it, don’t you? When I take my time with you—when I make you feel everything.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, your voice low, thick with the same need that bleeds through his. “I love it.” Your nails drag slowly down his back, not enough to hurt, but enough to pull a sharp breath from his chest. “The way you fill me up—” your voice drops further, a quiet, deliberate murmur, your lips brushing his ear as you speak, “—the way you make me take all of you.”

A whimper slips past your lips, muffled against his hand, and Jaehyun grins, slow and wicked, like he’s winning something you didn’t realize you were fighting for. “I knew you would.” His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, smearing the dampness collecting there as his hips roll forward again, sinking him impossibly deeper, until there’s nowhere left for him to go. “You’re mine, baby. Doesn’t matter what day it is—Christmas morning, Easter, your fucking birthday—you belong to me.”

The words hit you like a spark, flaring deep inside you and leaving you breathless, your body shuddering beneath him. The kids. The house. The stillness. It all feels so far away when Jaehyun has you like this, caging you beneath him with his body, his voice, his touch. The deliberate drag of his cock against your walls is maddening, each thrust perfectly timed to pull you apart inch by inch, your quiet gasps swallowed by his palm.

The weight of his hips betrays the softness of his voice. He rolls forward, slow and deliberate, forcing his cock into you inch by inch, dragging out the stretch until it borders on unbearable. Your body trembles beneath him, the sheets twisted and damp beneath you, legs shaking as you hook your heels behind his thighs, trying to pull him closer.

“Impatient,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth tugging into a crooked grin as he watches you fight for control, every inch of your body clinging to him. “But you like it like this, don’t you? Slow.” He thrusts again, deep and precise, filling you so completely that your breath stutters against the palm of his hand. “Like I’ve got all the time in the world to fuck you open.”

The house is cloaked in a silence so fragile it feels like it might shatter at the slightest sound. The soft creak of the bed beneath you rises with every movement, every deliberate snap of his hips against yours. Beyond the window, the faint glow of Christmas lights from the house across the street spills into the room—red, gold, green—turning Jaehyun’s shoulders into something sculpted and painted, his damp skin catching the light in streaks of color.

The weight of him bears down on you like a force of nature, his forearm braced beside your head, veins flexing beneath his skin. He shifts, hand sliding from your cheek to brush a thumb along the corner of your mouth, smearing the dampness that lingers there. “So quiet now,” he breathes, though the cruel glint in his eye tells you he’s not satisfied. “You were whining a minute ago. Where’d that go, baby?”

He grinds his hips against you, pelvis catching against your clit in a slow, maddening rhythm that has you bucking beneath him, hands clawing at his back, his shoulders, anything you can reach. His hand tightens on your face, thumb pressing into your cheek until your eyes snap open, meeting his gaze.

“Good girl.” The words are a murmur, dark and warm, dragging over you like silk and fire. “Eyes on me when I’m talking to you.”

Your voice is a muffled sob against his palm as he thrusts harder, the sound of him fucking into you slick and obscene in the quiet room. His rhythm is relentless now—slow, yes, but unforgiving in its precision, each roll of his hips pressing you further into the mattress, each drag of his cock against your walls forcing a tremor to race through your body.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me.” Jaehyun’s voice is strained, barely more than a groan as he drops his head, forehead brushing yours. His hand moves down your body, fingers trailing across your skin until they find your clit, circling it with lazy, practiced pressure. The sudden contact makes your thighs clamp around his waist, your entire body jerking as the pleasure coils tighter in your stomach. “That’s it. There you are. I feel you, baby—clenching around me like you don’t want me to leave. You want more, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, tears welling in your eyes as you fight the overwhelming tension building inside you. It’s too much—his cock filling you with every brutal thrust, the pressure on your clit threatening to split you apart, the weight of his body pressing you into the bed until you can barely breathe. You try to speak, but all that escapes is a fractured, gasping whimper.

“Use your words,” Jaehyun mutters, his thumb still working slow circles against you, his pace unrelenting. “Tell me what you want. I know you can.”

“More,” you choke out, your voice cracking, raw and wrecked. “Please, Jaehyun.”

The sound he makes is low and guttural, like the words snap something inside him. “Fuck,” he growls, and his hand leaves your face to slip behind your knee, pulling your leg higher to spread you wider beneath him. The new angle has him sinking impossibly deeper, hitting a spot that makes your back arch and your fingers dig helplessly into his skin.

“That’s what you want, huh?” he taunts, though his voice shakes, strained at the edges as he fights for control. “You want me to ruin you? Want me to keep fucking you until you can’t take it anymore?”

“Yes,” you sob, the word barely more than a breath as the tension in your core tightens, tightens, tightens—your body trembling beneath him, every nerve pulled taut, the heat in your stomach coiling dangerously. You cling to him, fingers curling into the damp skin of his back, desperate for something to ground you. Jaehyun doesn’t relent, doesn’t waver; his movements are steady, deliberate, dragging you closer and closer to the edge without letting you fall.

Jaehyun leans down, lips brushing the corner of your mouth as his thumb presses harder against your clit, matching the relentless snap of his hips. “Cum for me,” he growls, his voice rough and low, his own restraint slipping as his thrusts grow erratic. “Cum on my cock, baby. Let me feel you.”

You shatter. The orgasm crashes through you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs, your entire body locking up as white-hot pleasure pulses through you, wave after wave, leaving you gasping, writhing beneath him. You don’t know if you’re crying or moaning or screaming, but Jaehyun’s groan rips through the haze, his hips stuttering as he thrusts deep, burying himself inside you one last time as he follows you over the edge.

The room hangs heavy with the kind of stillness that feels earned—weighted, charged, intimate. Your breath mingles with his, shallow and uneven, the space between your bodies nonexistent as Jaehyun’s weight presses into you, skin damp and clinging to yours like it belongs there. His forehead drops to the crook of your neck, and you feel the tremor in him, the faint shudder that mirrors your own, his chest rising and falling against yours in sync.

“You good?” he rasps, voice rough and low, like it’s been dragged across gravel. The words are barely there, a whisper that seems to settle on your skin, warm and grounding.

You hum faintly, your lips parting on a breathless exhale as your hand drifts to the back of his neck, fingers threading slowly through the sweat-damp strands of his hair. The faintest noise escapes him—something between a sigh and a groan—as he melts further into you, his mouth brushing lazily along the slope of your shoulder, teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver through you.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s heavy, comfortable, broken only by the faint crack of the heater warming the room and the quiet rhythm of your breathing as it begins to steady. The glow of the Christmas lights still bleeds through the window, streaks of red and gold spilling over the mess of sheets, over Jaehyun’s bare back, catching on the curve of your hip, your thighs tangled with his beneath the blankets.

He doesn’t move, his arm draped possessively across your waist, fingers tracing mindless patterns against your skin. There’s something grounding in it, the way his touch lingers—lazy but deliberate, like he refuses to let you slip away.

“Merry Christmas,” he mutters suddenly, the words mumbled into the crook of your neck, a teasing lilt curling at the edges of his voice.

You smile, slow and tired, your hand still buried in his hair as you press your lips to his temple, lingering there. “Merry Christmas, Jaehyun,” you whisper back, soft enough to match the glow of the room around you.

His grin widens against your skin, and there’s a new weight to the way he shifts, his hand drifting lower, fingers curving along the swell of your hip with intent that feels impossible to miss. “You know…” he drawls, his voice low, smooth, his lips grazing your jaw as he pulls you tighter against him, “…I think I still owe you one more present.”

“Jae—” you start, half a protest, half a breathless laugh, but he cuts you off with a roll of his hips, slow and teasing, leaving no doubt as to exactly what he means.

The moment shatters with the soft patter of tiny feet in the hall, quick and deliberate, growing louder as they near the bedroom door. You freeze beneath Jaehyun’s weight, the shared rhythm of your breaths slowing as you both listen, waiting. He doesn’t move yet, his chest still pressed to yours, the heavy warmth of him a quiet comfort.

And then—

“Mama! Daddy!”

Your son’s voice bursts through the quiet like a firework, bright and alive. The door swings open with an eager shove, crashing into the wall as he barrels into the room, a little storm of energy and wonder. He’s all tangled hair and oversized pajamas, the pants slipping slightly with every step, but he doesn’t care. “Santa came! He came!”

Before you can react, he’s already climbing up, hands and knees sinking into the mattress as he scrambles toward the middle of the bed. His small chest rises and falls in quick bursts, his face glowing with excitement, round eyes impossibly wide as though the magic of it all is too big to contain. “Santa came,” he repeats, breathless, his fists gripping the blanket near your waist as if he needs to hold onto something to keep from bursting.

Jaehyun stirs beside you, his arm sliding from your waist to prop himself up on an elbow. His hair is sticking up in every direction, but the slow smile that spreads across his face softens him, dimples carving deep into his cheeks as he looks at your son. “Santa came, huh?” he murmurs, his voice gravelly from sleep but threaded with warmth, like he can’t help but get caught in his son’s excitement.

“Yes!” your son shouts, nodding so fiercely he nearly topples over. “He left presents! I know it!”

Jaehyun’s grin widens, his expression lighting up in that easy way that always makes your chest tighten. “You’re sure?” he teases, sitting up a little further, his fingers ruffling the boy’s tangled hair. “You didn’t peek, did you?”

Your son freezes, the breath catching in his little chest, eyes going wide as though Jaehyun’s just accused him of something unforgivable. “No! I didn’t!” he insists, his voice rising an octave, equal parts indignant and scandalized. “Mama says Santa knows if you peek!”

“Smart mama,” Jaehyun murmurs, shooting you a playful glance before turning back to your son, his large hand cupping the back of the boy’s head as he gently tugs him closer. There’s no teasing in the way he pulls him in—just warmth, quiet and steady, as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to his temple. “I believe you, bud,” he whispers, his voice fond and so gentle it almost breaks you.

Your son melts into it, his earlier defensiveness slipping away as his small hands reach out, fisting lightly in Jaehyun’s shirt like he can’t get close enough. “I told sissy I didn’t peek,” he mumbles, softer now, the edge of his voice dipping into something sweet. “And I heard the reindeer, Daddy. I really did.”

But before Jaehyun can respond, there’s a softer sound—the faint shuffle of smaller feet. You look toward the doorway just in time to see your daughter trailing in after him, her stuffed bunny dangling from one hand, her movements slower, still heavy with sleep. She stops halfway into the room, her face a sleepy pout, cheeks flushed and eyes droopy as she blinks at the chaos.

“Daddy,” she mumbles, her voice small and scratchy. “Up.”

Jaehyun shifts instantly, a quiet laugh slipping from him as he stretches out an arm. “Oh, come here, baby girl,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly tender. She toddles toward him, her steps uneven, the soft bounce of her bunny against the floor following her every move. When she reaches the edge of the bed, Jaehyun scoops her up, his large hands cradling her small frame as though she’s made of glass.

“There’s my princess,” he whispers, pulling her into his chest. She melts against him immediately, thumb slipping into her mouth as she nestles her cheek against his shoulder, her bunny now squished between them. “You’re still sleepy, huh?” he coos softly, his hand stroking slow circles up and down her back.

“Bubba loud,” she mutters faintly, her brows furrowing as she glares sleepily at her brother, thumb still tucked into her mouth.

Jaehyun grins, glancing down at the small, sleepy bundle tucked against him, her bunny squished tightly between her arm and his chest. “Bubba’s just excited,” he murmurs, kissing her hair again, his lips lingering there. “It’s Christmas, baby girl.”

She hums softly, her thumb slipping from her mouth as she shifts closer, curling herself tighter into him. “Cwissmas,” she mumbles, the word slurred but content, her face tucked beneath Jaehyun’s chin like it’s where she belongs.

Jaehyun’s smile deepens, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he tilts his head just enough to look down at her, his lips brushing her hair. “Christmas,” he murmurs gently, drawing the word out slowly, coaxing her with the softness of his voice. “Say it with me, baby. Christmas.”

She stirs faintly, her thumb slipping from her mouth as she blinks up at him, her big eyes hazy with sleep. “Cwiss…mas,” she mumbles again, her tiny voice uncertain but determined, her brows knitting in concentration.

“There you go,” Jaehyun praises softly, his hand gliding up to cradle the back of her head as he kisses her temple. “Christmas. Perfect, just like you.”

Her face tucks back under his chin, satisfied now, her little fingers curling tighter into his shirt. Jaehyun holds her closer, his voice nothing but a whisper. “That’s my girl. My smart, perfect girl.”

Your son, sprawled dramatically across the bed now, sighs loudly in response. “Daddy, she doesn’t get it.”

“She gets it,” Jaehyun replies gently, shooting you a grin over his daughter’s head as he rocks her faintly, her bunny tucked under her chin. “She’s just enjoying her Christmas cuddles, aren’t you, baby?”

Your son groans again, his hands tugging insistently at the blankets as he looks up at you with big, pleading eyes. “Mama, come on. We gotta go see the tree!”

You laugh softly, reaching out to smooth a hand over his messy hair. “We’ll go in a minute, sweetheart,” you murmur, and he pouts dramatically, flopping halfway into your lap with a mumbled complaint.

“She’s right, though,” Jaehyun adds, his voice low and teasing as he adjusts your daughter more comfortably against his chest, her thumb still tucked in her mouth as she drifts closer to sleep. “Bubba is kind of loud this morning.”

“Am not!” your son protests, lifting his head to glare at his sister with all the outrage a four-year-old can manage. “I’m just excited!”

“Too loud,” your daughter insists sleepily, her words muffled against Jaehyun’s shirt.

Jaehyun chuckles, his thumb brushing over the soft curve of her cheek as his gaze lingers on her peaceful face. “She’s tired, bud,” he says softly, pulling your son closer with his free arm. “But you’re right—it is exciting. Santa must’ve known you were so good this year, huh?”

“Yeah!” your son exclaims, his pride returning full force as he grins up at Jaehyun, his legs sprawled across the bed like he owns it. ��I heard the reindeer, Daddy. I told sissy they were on the roof!”

Your daughter stirs just enough to pull her thumb from her mouth, blinking slowly up at him. “No, Bubba,” she whispers solemnly. “Reindeer in sky.”

Jaehyun’s laughter is soft, low, as he kisses her hair again. “She’s got a point, bud,” he says, his voice full of fondness. “Reindeer do fly, after all.”

Your son opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off with a kiss to his forehead, brushing your fingers through his wild hair. “Let’s just cuddle for a minute, baby,” you murmur, pulling him into the warmth of the blankets beside you. “Then we’ll see what Santa left, okay?”

Jaehyun shifts slightly, careful not to disturb the little girl nestled against his chest, her breaths slow and even. He tilts his head to look at your son, sprawled lazily across the bed, his earlier excitement melting into the soft, quiet glow of the moment. “Come here, bud,” Jaehyun murmurs, his voice soft, coaxing, as he stretches out his free arm.

Your son hesitates for a beat, his big, sleepy eyes flicking toward Jaehyun before a shy smile tugs at his lips. He pushes himself up clumsily, his small limbs still heavy with morning, and crawls over the sheets into Jaehyun’s waiting arms. Jaehyun gathers him close, folding him snug against his side with a kind of gentleness that makes your chest ache.

“There we go,” Jaehyun breathes, pressing his lips softly to the top of your son’s head, lingering there for a moment as though soaking in the weight of him, the warmth. “I missed my boy. You’re getting so big, you know that?”

Your son hums, his little hands curling into Jaehyun’s shirt as he nestles closer, his earlier energy fading into the pull of comfort and closeness. “Not that big, Daddy,” he mumbles, his voice muffled and small.

Jaehyun laughs quietly, the sound soft and affectionate, as he presses another kiss to your son’s hair, his thumb tracing lazy circles against his back. “Not yet,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet promise. “But don’t grow up too fast, okay? You’re still my little guy.”

Your son grins sleepily, his face half-hidden against Jaehyun’s chest as he whispers, “I won’t.”

Jaehyun doesn’t stop there. His gaze lifts to you, his free hand reaching out wordlessly, a silent invitation you can’t resist. He tugs you gently into his warmth, folding you into the space beside your son, his arms looping around the three of you like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to hold onto.

You sink into him easily, your head resting against his shoulder as his hand finds yours beneath the blankets, lacing your fingers together. His palm is warm, steady, grounding. Your son sighs softly, curling closer between you both, and your daughter shifts faintly against Jaehyun’s chest, her bunny still clutched tightly in one tiny hand.

Jaehyun presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there, his voice nothing but a murmur meant just for you. “My whole world,” he whispers, his thumb brushing faintly across your knuckles.

Your heart swells, your chest impossibly full as you close your eyes, letting yourself melt into the moment—this perfect stillness, this warmth wrapped in soft limbs and sleepy whispers.

“Merry Christmas,” you whisper, the words quiet and steady, brushing against his skin.

Jaehyun hums softly, his lips pressing another kiss to your hair. “Merry Christmas, baby,” he replies, his voice thick with love.

And for a moment, nothing else exists—the world outside fades, the morning light a gentle glow through the curtains. It’s just the four of you, tucked close in Jaehyun’s arms, held together by something deeper than words.

The presents can wait. The day can wait. This—this warmth, this love—is everything.

[quickestgold]

Still Alive: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Part 2 of Still Life

Synopsis: Delivery complications during the birth of your son leave Jack caught between grief and hope, life and loss. In the stillness that follows, those who witnessed it begin to confront their own silent trauma, navigating recovery, healing and bonding with a newborn.

Warnings: Angst, but also comfort this time; Very graphic descriptions of a traumatic birth, massive blood loss, life support, mentions of maternal death stats, abortion, overall pretty heavy, please take care!!

Word count: 3.4k+

A/n: Can you tell I'm incredibly passionate about reproductive health and bodily autonomy!! This turned a bit political... whoops!

Also, you guys basically held me at gunpoint to write this lmfao… hope you like it!! name and shame special mentions: @florenceivy @bungurus @happyfox43 @pearlofthepitt @angrytimemachineduck @pear-1206 @yousigned-upforthis @blushinginapril @theblackestvalkyrie @csigeoblue @xxemmarldxx @travelingmypassion <3

“You did so good, my love." Jack whispers. "So fucking good.” He wraps a blanket around you both, trying to shield you from the cold, from the storm, from everything.

The placenta came out whole. That should’ve been the end of it.

The start of your little family.

Robby watches the three of you fondly, though his movements stay clinical and focused.

Jack, now fully stepping into the role of husband and father, lets him take charge.

With a calm, gentle bedside manner, Robby cleans you as gently as he can with the supplies he has available, assessing the extent of your perineal tear and preparing to suture.

The aftermath of the miracle of life, raw, exposed, brutal.

You don‘t feel any of it. The world rests on your chest, a warm, perfect weight. Your baby’s tiny breaths brush against your flushed, clammy skin.

For a few peaceful seconds, the three of you breathe in perfect harmony. A beautiful rhythm that creates an unbreakable bond between you.

Your souls tied together by invisible strings.

The emotions, the hormones and the love are overwhelming.

But bliss never lingers. Never long enough.

The surgical blanket between your legs suddenly turns dark.

Then comes the gush.

A wave of blood pours out of your body. And it keeps coming.

To much. Too fast.

Robby reacts instantly, but he can‘t keep up.

Jack’s eyes grow wide, his face goes pale.

Primary postpartum hemorrhage.

You’re not supposed to die giving birth. Not here. Not now.

Not with Jack watching.

But you‘ve seen this before. Too many times.

Women bleeding out on tables.

Partners gripping their hands, helpless, as the world stops making sense.

The devastating truth is, maternal death rates in the U.S. are shockingly high and for women of color, the risk is even two to three times higher.

It‘s bias, delayed care, systemic neglect.

It's a lack of research, a lack of funding.

A deep, persistent lack of interest in women‘s health.

Our pain sidelined.

Ignored.

Normalized.

The system continues to fail women and people with a uterus.

Jack knows that. Robby does too.

That’s why the moment the bleeding starts, they don’t waste time. They’ve seen how fast a name turns into a number.

How a tragedy turns into a statistic, that ultimately changes nothing.

Robby calls out for Jack to assist, before starting a uterine massage to stimulate contraction.

Jack’s eyes flicker to Robby’s, his hand deep inside you. That part doesn’t register until later.

You don‘t respond to the pain. Not a good sign.

You‘re going into shock.

Robby‘s gloves are soaked. Your blood literally on his hands. The massage isn‘t working. Not fast enough anyway.

Robby shouts orders at Dana, voice trembling, then turns to Jack. “Start the IV.“

Jack's trained for this. But he hesitates.

Frozen.

Jack never freezes.

Always calm and collected, even during the most chaotic, traumatizing cases.

Robby knows the feeling. There have been one or two instances where time stood still for him too. Where his body was suddenly not his own, even though others counted on him.

He needs Jack, now.

You need him.

Robby is only thinking in units, how many you‘ve lost, how many you need.

This isn’t a slow bleed. This is the kind that kills people.

Fast.

“Jack!” Still no answer. “Dr. Abbot!“ Robby‘s desperate yell finally snaps Jack back into professional mode.

He moves. Slides out from under you, gently guiding you onto your back, cradling your head.

He rushes to switch out with Robby, now massaging your uterus with one hand, the other pressing firmly on your abdomen.

Robby swiftly takes your boy from your arms, leaving you dazed and confused.

“It‘s okay, he‘s okay.“ Robby’s eyes lock with yours for a second. “We need to stop the bleeding.“

You don‘t hear any of it, your world being ripped from you.

Robby passes the baby through the elevator door to Dana, who cradles him close, rocking gently.

Jack returns to your side, settling at your head again, cupping your face.

Robby works quickly. He inserts a Bakri balloon through your cervix, inflating it with sterile fluid to put pressure on the uterine wall.

You don‘t see any of it.

The world just... stops.

It’s been a week since Jack and Robby fought to save your life.

A week since you bled out on the cold elevator floor.

A week since you took your last breath on your own.

Jack hasn‘t left your bedside, except maybe the odd trip to the bathroom, but otherwise he's been still.

The image of a tube down your throat forever burnt into his mind. Your exhausted body hooked up to machines that he knows keep you alive. That breathe for you now.

As a doctor, Jack knows the truth: one flipped switch and you’d be gone.

But as a partner, as a new father, he clings to the hope that you‘ll come back.

Jack feels paralyzed, fear, guilt and helplessness weighing him down.

The life you have built together is on hold, a deep stillness filling the air.

All he can do is wait for something to change. Either one way or the other. But in this moment, time seems to stand still.

It’s also been a week since your son was born.

Sometimes, Jack has to remind himself of that. That there's a whole new life now, suddenly depending on him.

But ridden with guilt, he finds himself unable to care for your boy in this time of crisis.

Dana brings the baby in sometimes, places him gently on your chest. Skin-to-skin. For the baby and the mom.

Those are the rare moments Jack lets himself feel it. The love. The dream.

A glimpse of what was supposed to be.

Until the sadness floods back in.

He failed you. As a husband. As a doctor.

How could he not save you?

“She‘s so still.“ Jack says under his breath.

“She‘s still alive, Jack.“ Robby‘s voice is kind but firm. He sits across from him on the other side of your bed, watching Jack carefully. “She needs you to believe in that.“

Jack just stares at you. “We‘ve both seen how most of these go“

“I know.“ Robby looks at you then your boy resting calmly on your chest. “But we‘re not there yet."

Robby picks up your son's tiny hand. Instinctively, those small fingers wrap around Robby’s.

“He has your smile“, Robby laughs softly.

Jack‘s frown lines soften. “And her eyes.“

The realization makes Jack smile. Robby gives him a nod, as if he just proved his point.

“Add some silver to those curls, a bit of unhealthy cynicism and a dash of existential dread… voilá!“

That earns a chuckle.

Jack rolls his eyes. “We both know I’m the healthy one.”

“Healthy is a stretch, brother.“ Robby raises an eyebrow. “I have talked you off a ledge or two.“

Jack snorts. "Ditto. Why did I even give you my therapist‘s number if you‘re not gonna use it.“

“What makes you think I haven‘t.“ A smile tugs at Robby‘s lips.

“Get out.“ Jack stares. “Have you?“

“Yes, actually“, Robby’s tone turns proud.

“When?"

He doesn’t need to answer. Jack already knows.

They both look at you.

The irony isn't lost on Jack. He is the one that hasn‘t made an appointment since it happened. Too afraid to leave your side.

When he thought about losing you before - and he has, of course, he‘s seen too much loss, too much death - he always knew he would find himself on a roof not soon after.

But now. Now another life depends on him. Regardless of whether you leave them.

“You know what happened isn‘t your fault, right?“ Jack puts the question out there, though he knows the answer.

Robby just shakes his head. And in that moment Jack realizes the guilt that‘s weighing on Robby too.

He wants to shake him, tell him he couldn’t have done more. But he also understands. Somehow, sharing the guilt makes it all a little more bearable.

“She wants you to be godfather.“ Jack says before he can overthink it. “I do too, in case that‘s not obvious.“

Robby‘s eyes widen in surprise, too stunned to speak.

“I know, I know, first the baby‘s name, now this.“ Jack furrows his brows. “If I didn‘t know any better I‘d be jealous…“

Back in his body, Robby finds his voice. “When you say it like that, he kind of does have my nose…“

“Careful, fruitcake-“

“I swear to god, Abbot, if you call me that again-“

A soft cry cuts through the banter.

Both men go still.

Jack stares at his son.

The frown lines on Jack‘s face, suddenly deep as ever. Jack realizes that he hasn‘t actually held his boy. Not really, apart from the few short moments when he places him on your chest.

And certainly not like a father should.

Whereas Robby has visited the NICU after every shift, occasionally even during his breaks. Checking, caring, guarding.

He's ready to hold him if Jack is not.

Robby's seen it many times. How deeply partners are affected by birth trauma too. It‘s the kind of silent pain that eats away at people.

The guilt, the helplessness. The shame, for even feeling this way, when it didn‘t physically happen to them.

The scars cut deep, even if they aren‘t the ones that carry them.

Their partners are the ones fighting for their lives, so surely they have no right to feel so broken. They have to be strong for the both of them. To hold the family together.

But as doctors, they know that‘s not how it works.

And yet no one speaks of it.

So they suffer in silence.

And even though Jack has all of the practical and theoretical knowledge, he still falls victim to it.

Robby doesn‘t push, he‘s just there.

Still.

But this time, Jack moves first. He reaches for his boy, lifts him into his arms. Holds him against his chest.

The crying fades. Jack’s doesn’t.

Tears fall down his cheeks as he rocks the baby gently.

“We‘ll be okay." He whispers into his son’s soft curls. "You, me and your mommy.“ He exhales, eyes shut. “She loves you so much. And I know she can‘t wait to meet you."

Jack has felt lost since the moment your eyes closed. But now... he finds you again.

In your baby’s eyes.

And he can‘t help but feel a wave of love wash over him.

You made this tiny human together. And he‘s every bit as beautiful as you‘d expect.

All the pain, the sadness and the fear briefly stop for a moment of peace.

Jack stays like this for what feels like hours. Robby was called away for a critical case at some point, though Jack didn't really notice when he left.

He doesn‘t notice Dana standing in the doorway either, until she raises her voice slightly to speak. “You‘re a natural, Jack.“

Her words are kind and affirmative and just what Jack needs.

Dana is perceptive like that. Always knows what to say to make others feel better even when her own life is falling apart.

Even in times of deep crisis, she is the first to step up and help.

And that‘s what she did for you.

When Jack and Robby were working on you, desperately trying to stop you from bleeding out, her helping hands were a safe haven for your boy.

But it also affected her. She was used to compartmentalizing, but seeing her colleague, her friend, on the floor, pale, not breathing and still, left a scar.

And she too feels like this is something she can‘t speak of. Because again, what right does she have.

So she carries it with her. Silently.

She feels it every time she comes into your room to brush your hair. When she moisturizes your face and hands. When she strokes her thumb over your frown line.

She tells you about her day and your boy‘s.

Jack is there too of course.

He never leaves.

It‘s the only time when Jack allows himself to rest his eyes for a bit, a deep trust that Dana's watching over you.

“Want me to take him up to the NICU?“ Dana offers gently.

“Thank you." Jack contemplates for a moment before shaking his head. "I‘ve got it.“

He moves to stand, his eyes flickering to you then back to Dana.

“I‘ve got her“, she assures him with a warm smile, taking a seat next to you.

As he moves towards the door, Dana suddenly stops him. “What the hell did you to her hair, Abbot?“

Jack just shrugs innocently.

Dana scoffs, lightly cursing under her breath. "Men."

Jack returns a small smile, leaving your room for the first time in a week, cradling his newborn.

Like many times before, Robby spends his break in your room.

Dana has just finished your beauty routine. Fixing the mess on your head that Jack clumsily left.

Robby watches the two of you fondly. There are no words needed. Just a silent appreciation of the people in his life. In yours.

He thinks back to when he picked up the phone to call the therapist Jack recommended. He was sobbing, hands shaking, voice trembling, breathing unsteady. Just minutes earlier, he had put you on life support. No time to process.

And of course, it brought everything back. The memory of taking Dr. Adamson, his mentor, his friend, off ECMO. The grief still raw.

So Robby dialed the number and made an appointment. A tiny win in itself. Although, he'd later realize wasn't so small after all.

The therapist was nice enough. Though Robby felt like he was being assessed. Because, of course, he was.

Doctors make the worst patients. Especially, in therapy.

They know too much, often feel they're above being treated. Above being helped.

Physician heal thyself.

Collins' words echo in his mind.

Robby remembers when Heather told him about the miscarriage.

His heart broke for her.

Though he wasn't the father, so was it his place to feel devastated?

Or when she told him she had an abortion, long after they broke up. He wanted to cry. Not because he didn't respect her decision. It's her body and he would have supported her no matter what.

No. Because she was scared and alone. Felt like she couldn't come to him and tell him. To share the weight of her choice.

He believes he failed her.

Like he failed you.

He should probably make another appointment.

There've been a few breakthroughs in the couple of sessions he's attended. His therapist made him start a journal. Write down all the things that plague his mind.

So he does. The words practically pouring out of him.

Robby writes about how partners are mostly an afterthought when it comes to birth trauma.

How they're expected to be strong, to support, to hold down the fort and to move on.

How there are little to no resources for families and loved ones.

How there's no funding, no research and too much stigma.

How much it would help people feel less alone if they could actually talk about it.

How birth trauma doesn't begin and end with the person giving birth.

And mostly he thinks about you in this bed, still, unconscious, far away. How it’s simply to much to bear alone. But he cannot bring himself to translate those thoughts onto paper.

Not when there‘s still hope.

The monitors beep. A sudden change. Something is different.

Your eyes flutter, your muscles twitch, the sound of faint gags fill the room.

Robby rushes to your side, quickly assessing if you're ready to breathe on your own.

You pass the criteria, so he orders Dana to prep for extubation, attempting to calm you down.

You try to inhale, but it’s wrong. Your throat is on fire. Your jaw tight.

A hand finds yours. Dana. "You're okay, honey. You're okay."

But something’s in your throat, a deep panic tears through your chest and you choke, eyes widening.

Someone else is speaking, pleading. "I know, I know it hurts. We’re getting it out. Hang on for me.” The voice is too familiar, but you can‘t place it.

You gag, something slick is pulled from deep inside you. It feels like you're being sliced open.

The second the sharp object leaves your throat, you gasp like you're taking your first breath. Like you've drowned and you're coming up for air.

You cough and cough, terrified and breathless. Eyes heavy.

Then you hear his voice. Again. Clearer this time.

Your eyes flutter open, focusing, trying to find something to hold onto. That makes sense. Anything.

"My love."

Jack.

Jack steps closer, cradling your head, his other palm resting gently on your chest. "You're still here." He says it like he's convincing himself.

Your eyes soften, your breathing steadies. You barely take in your surroundings, your only focus is Jack.

"You're okay." He's clinging to your face now. "God, I missed those eyes."

Your thoughts clear. Memories start flooding back.

Michael. But the words don‘t leave your throat.

Jack studies your face, patiently.

You try again. A whisper.

"Michael."

"I'm here", Robby answers, though you swear he's made that joke before.

You attempt to shake your head, though it's more of a twitch.

"I know you're not talking about me." Robby admits, gesturing to someone in the doorway.

The you hear it. Tiny cooing filling the air.

Your sweet baby.

A fragile sob escapes your lips. You look at Jack, who helps you sit up just enough.

Every muscle aches, every joint throbs, every scar burns, but a sudden energy surges through you. You lift your arms just enough for Dana to place your boy into your waiting arms. Like you found the missing piece of the puzzle. Like you're finally where you belong.

Jack wraps his arm around your shoulders, his other hand steadying yours as you cradle your boy.

"He has your smile", you whisper lovingly, gazing up at your partner.

Robby and Jack share a look and you wonder what that's about. Though it looks like Robby feels very much validated.

"All I see is you", Jack counters, adoration and devotion in his gaze. Jack leans in to press his forehead to yours, your lips quickly finding his in a gentle, needed kiss.

When you pull apart, you turn to Robby and Dana.

"You were there..."

They look at you, unsure where you're going.

“It matters”, you continue. “All of it. So don’t… don’t carry this alone.”

A beat. The room goes quiet.

"You nearly died and you're worried about us?" Dana chokes.

“I want Mikey to know… that the people who brought him into this world are the ones who stood still for us when everything else stopped.”

You take a breath.

“Will you be his godparents?”

Dana nods fast, like she’s trying to keep tears from falling.

Robby stands there, arms crossed, head bowed. Evidently moved by your question, but there's something else.

You groan, narrowing your eyes. "Jack already asked you, didn't he?"

Robby hesitates, scratching his neck and looking anywhere but at you. There's no way to talk himself out of that one, so he confesses.

You drop your head back onto the pillow with a theatrical sigh, then shoot Jack a look. He raises his hands in mock-surrender, a genuine smile growing on his lips.

You turn back to Robby, expectantly.

"Of course", he smiles. "I'd be honored."

"I don't know if I should be glad or offended you didn't ruin the surprise for me too", Dana deadpans, turning to Jack.

Jack scrambles to change the subject. "You know... Robby went to see my therapist."

"You what?" You blink. “Oh my God… I called it. Group therapy is happening.”

Robby tries not to look too smug.

You turn to Jack, still grinning. “Does that make him the stable one now?”

Jack groans, “Don't start.”

There's a refreshing lightness in the air, that none of you have felt for a while.

You know the road to recovery is long and that healing is a process. You'll grieve the time you've missed with your son. The milestones you weren't there for.

But the people in this very room were with you during the worst time of your life and you know you’ll make it through this too.

Together.

You hold your son closer. And Jack holds you.

In that moment, you realize that trauma is shared and that naming it is a kind of healing.

Ok I need to stop, this story already got away from me, didn‘t intend for it to be so long but here we are. Please lmk what you think <3

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 28: July 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

The second session did not magically become easier than the first.

If anything, it felt heavier — not with tension, but with the weight of everything unspoken that now hovered in the room like fog. The kind that settled into your bones.

Belle sat stiffly on the couch, her posture a little too perfect, the line of her spine drawn taut like a string pulled too tight. One hand curled around a mug of herbal tea Camille had handed her the moment she walked in — chamomile, the kind that was supposed to soothe. Her other hand rested on her thigh, fingers loose until Max’s slid between them. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t press. Just... anchored.

Silent. Solid. Always there.

Across from them, Camille offered her usual soft, steady smile, pen poised but barely moving. “Thank you all for coming back,” she said. “I know this isn’t easy.”

Arthur gave a quiet nod. Lorenzo sat with his hands clasped, his expression drawn and unreadable, like he was still bracing for impact. Pascale held her handbag on her lap like armor — her nails tapping absently against the clasp. And Charles… Charles looked wrecked. Hair rumpled, shadows under his eyes, like sleep had been a stranger all week.

Belle didn’t look at him long.

“Let’s talk about the foal,” Camille said gently. “Galahad.”

The name alone sent a ripple through the room.

Belle blinked. She hadn’t expected that to come up so soon. Her thumb brushed the rim of her cup.

“He’s Blanche’s grandson,” she said quietly.

Pascale inhaled sharply, the kind of breath that sounded like it had edges. Arthur went still. Lorenzo’s brows pulled together, low and pained, as if he was trying to fold the memory of Blanche into something less sharp.

Charles frowned, his confusion too genuine to be faked. “I—wait. That’s real? It’s not just… people online guessing?”

Belle didn’t answer him at first. She just looked down into her tea — then lifted her eyes, cool and clear, to her brother.

“Max gave me Fleur,” she said, voice steady. “Blanche’s last foal. He found her. Bought her. For my birthday.”

Max didn’t flinch when every pair of Leclerc eyes snapped toward him. He didn’t even blink. He just slid his thumb gently over Belle’s knuckles, grounding her again — like a lighthouse in a storm he wasn’t afraid to weather.

“Blanche was sold when I was thirteen,” Belle continued. “She was the one thing in the world that was mine. And Papa sold her to pay for Charles’ karting season.”

Charles flinched visibly. Arthur looked like he was trying not to speak.

“We didn’t realize,” Pascale said quietly, voice barely above a breath. “That it hurt so much. You were so quiet about it…”

“I stopped talking about it,” Belle said, turning to her mother now — not cold, but calm in a way that made Max’s grip on her hand tighten slightly. “Because I learned not to ask for anything I loved. Because if I did, it would be taken away.”

The room went still.

Dead quiet.

“I didn’t know,” Charles said. “I mean— I knew Blanche was important, but I didn’t know it broke you like that.”

Belle didn’t blink. “Because no one ever asked if I wanted to ride again. Not once. You just assumed I was fine.”

“I thought you’d outgrown it,” Charles said weakly. 

“I didn’t,” Belle said. Her voice cracked for the first time, but she cleared it and went on. “I missed her every day. I used to dream she’d be there when I got home. I’d walk past the stables and think maybe… maybe someone changed their mind.”

Arthur’s voice was rough. “Why didn’t you say something?”

She looked at him. And for the first time, it wasn’t hurt in her eyes — it was exhaustion.

“Because you took away what I loved once,” Belle said. “What reason did I have to believe anyone would give it back?”

Camille sat forward slightly. “Belle, you mentioned working at a stable during university?”

Belle nodded. “It was the only way I could be near horses again. I mucked stalls, fed foals, groomed show ponies. I worked before and after classes just to pay for riding lessons.”

“And you never told anyone?” Lorenzo asked softly.

Belle gave him a thin smile. “Charles was already making F1 money. You were all busy celebrating. Why would I ruin it by saying I still missed something you decided didn’t matter?”

Max let go of her hand just long enough to rest his palm over her thigh, his thumb rubbing small, grounding circles there.

Charles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I was so focused on not letting anyone down—on winning. I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t ask,” Belle said.

And this time, it landed.

The silence afterward was raw. Heavy. Pascale dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her coat pocket.

“I thought you were so strong,” she whispered. “I thought if I didn’t ask, you wouldn’t hurt.”

“I still hurt,” Belle said, gentler this time. “I just stopped hoping you’d notice.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said suddenly, voice thick. “I’m so— I was selfish. I didn’t see what I cost you. I didn’t know how much we hurt you. That we took something from you and never even tried to give it back. That we just… assumed you didn’t need it anymore.”

Belle blinked hard. Max squeezed her hand tighter.

“I remember when they sold Blanche,” Charles said. “You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stopped. And I told myself that meant you were okay. But you weren’t. You were never okay. And I never asked why.”

Camille nodded. “Belle, how does that feel to hear?”

“I don’t want apologies because people feel guilty,” Belle said. “I want them because they finally see me. All of me.”

She looked at Charles again. “Do you?”

“I’m trying,” he said, voice shaking. “I promise—I’m really, really trying.”

Max finally spoke, low and firm. “Trying is good. But it’s only the beginning.”

Charles met Max’s eyes. For once, there was no defensiveness. Just shame.

Camille let the silence stretch before speaking again, her voice soft.

“Grief doesn’t always come from loss,” she said. “Sometimes it comes from being forgotten. From knowing that what matters most to you… didn’t matter to someone else.”

Belle closed her eyes, just for a moment.

And Max held her hand, the only thing that didn’t tremble.

The silence stretched again, heavier this time.

Charles had leaned back, hands clasped between his knees, shame carved deep into the lines of his face. Arthur sat rigid beside him, like he was holding his breath through the weight of it all.

And Lorenzo… Lorenzo hadn’t spoken in a while.

Not because he had nothing to say.

But because he had too much.

“I should’ve known,” he said finally.

His voice was rough — unused, too tight, like every word scraped its way out.

Belle looked at him, but didn’t speak. Just watched. Quiet. Braced.

Lorenzo’s hands flexed in his lap before he went still again.

“I was the oldest,” he said, not to anyone in particular. “I was supposed to look after everyone. Especially after Papa died. And I didn’t. Not really.”

He looked up at her then, and the regret in his expression nearly knocked the wind from her lungs.

“I thought… if you weren’t complaining, if you weren’t fighting… that meant you were fine.” A pause. “But you weren’t. And I should’ve seen that.”

Belle’s throat worked. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just waited.

“I saw you working during uni,” Lorenzo added, softer now. “I knew you were doing too much. But I told myself it was just who you were — that you liked being independent. I didn’t think to ask why. I didn’t think to ask if it was because we hadn’t given you anything to rely on.”

He looked down, thumb rubbing over a faded scar on his knuckle.

“I didn’t know you were still riding,” he said. “I didn’t know you were still hurting. And that’s not on you. That’s on me.”

Belle’s breath hitched — and she looked away, blinking fast.

“I thought I was doing enough by staying out of your way,” Lorenzo said, quieter still. “But all I did was stay out of your life.”

Across the room, Pascale was quietly crying.

Camille sat back, letting the silence do what it needed.

Max gently squeezed Belle’s hand.

And finally — finally — she found her voice again.

“I never stopped waiting for someone to ask,” she whispered. “Just once. Just one of you.”

Her voice didn’t waver, even though her eyes were glassy.

“You all knew how much I loved Blanche. You all knew what it meant when she was gone. And then you just… never asked again. All I ever wanted,” she said, “was to matter to you the way racing mattered. The way Charles mattered. The way Arthur’s comeback mattered. I didn’t need a podium. I just needed to be enough without earning it.”

Lorenzo wiped his face with a shaking hand.

Pascale looked like her heart was breaking in slow motion.

Lorenzo looked like he’d been punched.

“I care,” he said hoarsely. “I care, Belle. I’m so sorry it took me this long to say it.”

Belle didn’t nod.

Didn’t forgive.

But her hand curled tighter around Max’s.

And she didn’t look away.

Which was, for now, more than she’d ever given them before.

Camille’s voice was soft, guiding. “Maybe the next step isn’t trying to fix the past all at once. Maybe it’s about listening better. Starting now.”

***

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hum of the dishwasher and the occasional flick of Max’s thumb as he scrolled through his phone. Belle sat at the island, legs curled up on the stool, her chin resting on her palm as she nursed a glass of iced tea.

It had been a long day. The kind that didn’t hurt exactly, but left her feeling stretched thin.

Max looked up from his phone. “So, I was thinking,” he said, tone light, joking, “the summer break is coming up… we could actually take a holiday this time.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “A real one? No media, no Red Bull calls, no pretending we’re just ‘close friends’ in public?”

Max grinned. “Full honeymoon energy. Just with slightly more sunscreen and probably less champagne.”

She smiled faintly, but the curve of it faltered after a second.

“I don’t want to plan anything that’s meant to include them,” Belle said quietly, fingers tightening around her glass. “Not this time.”

Max didn’t ask who them was.

He didn’t have to.

She pressed on, voice steady but tired. “Every family trip, every holiday, every break… it was always about accommodating them. Maman’s preferences, Charles’ schedule, Lorenzo’s mood. I don’t want to do that again. I don’t want to spend my vacation hoping someone remembers I’m there.”

Max’s gaze softened. He reached out, tugging gently on her hand until she let go of the glass and laced her fingers through his instead.

“Then we don’t,” he said simply. “We make it ours. No apologies.”

Belle exhaled, slow and shaky. “I don’t want to spend this summer proving I’m fine without them. I want to actually be fine.”

Max brushed his thumb along her knuckles. “What if we invited my family instead?”

Belle blinked.

He continued, tone still light but thoughtful. “Ma has been asking to see you. We could rent a little villa — bring Victoria, Tom, the boys. Just family, but the kind that… makes you feel safe.”

Belle’s lips parted like she was going to argue — reflex, habit — but then she stopped.

Because that didn’t sound exhausting.

It didn’t sound like pressure.

It sounded like warm breakfasts and sleepy mornings and Lio climbing into her lap with sticky fingers, and Sophie giving her that kind, knowing smile that never made her feel small.

It sounded like a life she didn’t have to fight for every second.

She swallowed. “That actually… sounds really nice.”

Max leaned over, kissed her temple, and said, “Good. Because I already looked at places in the South of France.”

Belle let out a soft laugh, the tension finally beginning to slide from her shoulders. “Of course you did.”

Max smirked. “I have taste. And a wife with excellent boundaries.”

Belle squeezed his hand. “Getting there.”

“You’re already doing better than most,” he said, kissing her again. “And this summer? It’s going to be about you. Us. The people who show up.”

***

Group Chat: Summer Escape ☀️🐚

 (Members: Max, Belle, Victoria, Sophie, Tom)

Max: Found a villa in the South of France. Private beach, lots of space, kid-friendly. Sent you all the link.

Tom: Already sold by private beach tbh.

Victoria: Oh my god this place looks like a dream. Maxie, you’ve outdone yourself.

Sophie: It’s beautiful. And it looks peaceful, too — no paparazzi hiding in the bushes, I hope?

Belle: It’s gated and secluded. Max made sure.

Max: Called ahead. They’ve hosted high-profile guests before. We’ll be safe.

Victoria: Bless you. I love you both but I’m not spending my vacation ducking from long lenses while trying to wrangle Luka and Lio into sunscreen.

Tom: I can already feel the sunburn happening anyway.

Belle: I’ve got a whole itinerary if anyone’s interested 📝 Markets, coastal trails, a boat rental option, a local cooking class, and yes, Vic — I found a day spa.

Victoria: I LOVE YOU.

Sophie: That sounds like heaven. I’ll bake if someone else drives.

Max: Tom and I will handle the cars.

Tom: I’ll drive if Max promises not to play Dutch rap the entire way.

Max: Absolutely not. 

Belle: Compromise: Max gets aux on the way there, Tom gets it on the way back.

Tom: Deal.

Victoria: What dates are we looking at?

Max:Early August. I double-checked the F1 calendar. I’m free, and Belle will be far enough along to enjoy the trip but still comfortable.

Belle: I’ve already blocked off the week. Booked the villa this morning 🐚

Sophie: My bags are already mentally packed.

Victoria: Do you think Luka will cry if I tell him Auntie Belle is bringing board games?

Victoria: Okay but I’m bringing floaties for everyone. Even the adults.

Tom: I am NOT wearing a flamingo floatie, Vic.

Victoria: You will if you love me.

Sophie: I’ll bring sunscreen.

Max: Confirmed: easiest vacation planning ever.

***

The villa confirmation email had just come through when Max padded into the living room, two mugs of tea in hand and Jimmy winding lazily around his ankles.

Belle was curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, her laptop balanced on her knees, the faintest smile on her face — the kind she wore when something felt right.

Max handed her the mug, kissed her forehead, then dropped beside her with a contented sigh.

“All set?” he asked, glancing at the screen.

Belle nodded. “Dates confirmed, boat booked, and Victoria has already texted me a list of pool floaties shaped like sea creatures.”

Max huffed a soft laugh. “She really took the flamingo comment personally.”

“She said if Tom doesn’t wear the inflatable crab, she’s revoking his beach privileges.”

“Fair.”

Belle smiled again, soft and genuine — no tightness behind it, no edge of exhaustion. Just ease.

Max studied her for a moment. The light was hitting her just right — golden and gentle, casting little halos in her hair and warming the faint curve at the base of her belly.

“It’s different, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “Planning things with them. With us.”

Belle didn’t answer at first. She just wrapped both hands around the mug and stared at the steam rising gently from it.

Then: “It doesn’t feel like walking on eggshells.”

Her voice was calm, but Max heard the weight beneath it. The quiet ache of comparison.

“With them, it was always…” She hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder. “Careful. Strategic. Making sure everyone’s feelings were considered, even if it meant mine weren’t. And still, it always felt like I was asking for too much.”

Max leaned forward, resting his elbow on the back of the couch so he could face her properly.

“And now?” he asked.

Belle looked at him then, eyes warm. “Now it just feels like family.”

He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. Reached for her hand. Held it.

“You are family,” he said softly.

Before she could reply — her breath caught.

Max’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

She blinked, wide-eyed.

Then she grabbed his hand and moved it — lower, gently, carefully — to rest on the curve of her belly.

“There,” she whispered. “Right there.”

Max held still.

For a heartbeat, he wasn’t sure.

Then —

A flutter. A ripple. The tiniest thud beneath his palm. Like a secret knock from inside her.

His breath hitched.

“Oh,” he breathed, stunned.

Belle was already crying — silently, the kind of overwhelmed joy that needed no sound to carry its weight.

Max stared at her stomach like it held the universe.

“That was… That was the baby,” he said dumbly, his voice cracking halfway through. “That was our baby.”

She nodded, a laugh escaping through her tears.

He pressed his palm firmer, trying to coax another one — another flutter, another sign.

And there it was. Stronger this time.

A tiny kick.

A hello.

Max didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He just leaned forward and pressed his lips reverently to the curve of her belly, hands still cupping her like she might float away.

When he looked up at Belle, there were tears in her eyes too — but not the kind that broke. The kind that healed.

And Max — F1 World Champion, man of speed and fire — sat there quietly, completely undone by the smallest movement he’d ever felt.

Together, they stayed like that — no more talking, no more planning — just stillness, warmth, and the tiniest heartbeat between them.

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: em

Emilie: 👀 what happened are you okay is max okay did you post a horse again

Belle: 😂 no. Everyone’s fine, everything’s fine but the baby kicked for the first time. 

Emilie: WAIT WHAT BELLE ARE YOU SERIOUS AS IN REAL KICK LIKE A HELLO-I’M-HERE KICK???

Belle: Yes.  Like a real, actual kick Max felt it too I think he forgot how to breathe for a second

Emilie:I’m crying in the wine aisle A toddler just asked me if i’m okay

Belle:I wasn’t expecting it. We were just talking and then—boom… a little thump like "Hi mama, I exist"

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 this baby already has dramatic timing just like their parents

Belle:You should’ve seen Max. He looked like he’d been hit by lightning Then he kissed my belly and just… stayed there Like he was listening for more

Emilie: STOP YOU’RE KILLING ME I already love this child more than life itself

Belle: me too and they haven’t even arrived yet

Emilie:You’re going to be such a good mom they’re already so, so loved

Belle:They really are (and so are you)

Emilie: don’t do this i’m already emotional enough also do i get godmother rights or what

Belle: first dibs obviously

Emilie: 💅 as it should be

***

The race had started with cautious optimism.

Emilie had brought pastries. Belle had made tea. The cats were napping peacefully on the windowsill, and the entire living room smelled faintly of lavender and lemon from the candle burning on the side table.

It should have been a peaceful Sunday.

It was not.

It was a catastrophe. 

From start to finish. 

"Did they just—" Emilie’s voice cut off as she sat bolt upright on the couch, nearly spilling her tea. "Did McLaren really just tell Lando to stop pushing when he was gaining seconds a lap?!"

Belle didn’t answer. Her eyes were glued to the screen, mouth open in disbelief. She looked pale beneath the soft blanket pulled over her lap — a protective hand resting unconsciously on the slight curve of her belly.

"He's faster," Emilie growled. "They’re emotionally blackmailing him with Oscar’s first win. This is what we’re doing now?"

"This is going to break him," Emilie whispered. "You can hear it. You can hear the leash snap."

Belle flinched as Red Bull’s pit wall came into focus next. She could hear Max tightly banked fury in every single radio message. 

It was absolute chaos. 

Meanwhile Oscar Piastri — calm, clinical, precise — was slowly edging toward his maiden win.

Emilie had gone from angry muttering to full shouting.

"WHY ARE THEY LIKE THIS?" she demanded, half-standing, waving a croissant like a weapon. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH MCLAREN’S PIT WALL?!?! AND MAX?!? HE’S MAX. HOW DO YOU MESS UP MAX VERSTAPPEN?!"

Belle didn’t move. She just sat there, clenching her teeth as she watched Max fight for a P5 finish by the skin of his teeth. 

On the screen, Oscar crossed the line — P1. His first win. A historic moment. And the cameras panned to the McLaren garage erupting in joy.

Emilie sat back down, quieter now. "That was a nightmare," she murmured. "Nobody’s walking away from this clean."

Belle nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"No," she said. "They're not."

Emilie threw her hands up. "Oscar just won his first race, and I still want to punch someone."

Belle nodded slowly. "Because the entire grid is on fire."

"Because they sabotaged Lando, emotionally and strategically," Emilie fumed. "Because Red Bull turned Max into a sacrificial lamb. And because poor Oscar isn’t even going to get his proper moment."

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

On the screen, Oscar climbed from the car, waving to the crowd. The cheers were loud. But Belle could already see it happening — the press would spin it into "Verstappen furious at Red Bull failure" instead of "Piastri’s first victory."

Belle leaned her head back against the couch. “This was supposed to be a normal weekend.”

Emilie snorted. “Have you met Formula 1?”

Belle sighed. “Max is going to be impossible to calm down after this.”

"You’re the only one who can," Emilie said. "And maybe the baby, if they kick him in the kidney hard enough."

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: Hey. You want to talk about it?

Max: … No.

Max: Just Tell me about your day. Please.

Belle: Okay. Let’s see. Emilie came over and brought croissants. Then she spent the race shouting at the tv.  I made tea. The cats staged a nap-time rebellion. And our baby — who is currently the size of a sweet potato, apparently — kicked me when I sat down wrong.

Max:Already dramatic. That’s on you.

Belle: Excuse me?? I am elegance and grace.

Max: You are. But also a little terrifying. I love you.

Belle: I love you too. I’m proud of you, you know. Even when the car lets you down. Even when the whole race is a disaster. You still came home.

Max: That’s all I ever want. To come home to you.

Belle: Always. No matter what happens on track — I’m here. You, me, and a very kicky sweet potato. 🧡

Max: That made me smile. Thank you, Schatje. I’ll be home soon.

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Lily Zneimer

Belle: Hey What’s Oscar thinking for the celebration?

Lily: Honestly? He’s feeling kind of… underwhelmed.

Belle: God. That makes me so sad. He deserved the whole fireworks-and-cake treatment.

Lily: He keeps saying “a win’s a win,” but it’s like… even he knows they tainted it. He’s proud. He is. But he feels like everything around it fell apart. Like he won, but at what cost, you know?

Belle: Because they used Lando’s loyalty against him. All the headlines are about Max. Or Lando. Or McLaren strategy. Not about how brilliant he drove. He was flawless. Cool under pressure. Calm. Surgical. He deserved the world for that drive.

Lily: I told him that. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Belle: The entire race was a masterclass in emotional sabotage.

Lily: Exactly. He hasn’t said it, but I think he feels like he stole something. And it wasn’t his fault. But he still feels it.

Belle: That’s the worst part. He should be celebrating. But instead he’s probably thinking about Lando’s face on the podium and Max’s radio messages.

Lily: He keeps saying Lando didn’t even try to smile.

Belle: …Oscar and Lando are going to trauma-bond over this, aren’t they?

Lily: 100%. I’m pretty sure we’re about three days away from a “we’re not mad at each other, just mad at the world” emotionally repressed heart-to-heart.

Belle: They’re going to cry into Monster Energy Drinks and protein bars and swear they’re never letting a pit wall gaslight them again.

Belle: You know what? Screw it. Let’s throw a pool party at ours. Oscar deserves joy. Lando deserves relaxation. Max needs sunlight and distraction. And I’m pregnant. I can make it about me if I need to.

Lily: OH MY GOD YES. YES TO EVERYTHING. You say when and I’ll bring snacks and inflatable flamingos.

Belle: Done. I’ll talk to Max. Let’s give Oscar the celebration McLaren should have.

Lily: You’re the best. Seriously. He’s going to cry.

Belle: He can cry into the pool float shaped like a trophy. I’ll allow it. 😌

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Belle: Hey you 🧡 I know the last 24 hours have been a mess. But I also know something else. You won that race. Not McLaren. Not the strategists. You.

Oscar: Thanks, Belle. I’m trying to focus on that. It just feels… weird.

Belle: Of course it does. You were brilliant. But the world got loud about everything else. That doesn’t take away from what you did.

Oscar: It’s hard to feel like it’s mine, I guess. I don’t want Lando to think I didn’t notice how much he gave up. And Max… he deserved better too. Everyone’s mad. It’s hard to celebrate when it feels like I’m the reason for the wreckage.

Belle: Oscar. You are not the wreckage.

Oscar: That’s… Thank you. Really.

Belle: So. Here’s what’s going to happen. This weekend, you’re coming over. We’re throwing a pool party.

Oscar: A what?? 😳

Belle: A celebration. For you. No media. No drama. Just people who love you, a barbecue, flamingos, probably cats, and a really smug Red Bull driver pretending he isn’t excited to man the grill.

Oscar: Is this a trap?

Belle: Only if you hate joy and inflatable pool floaties. Which would be tragic.

Oscar: You don’t have to do that, Belle.

Belle: I want to. Because you should’ve had fireworks. So we’ll give you laughter instead. You earned your moment, Oscar. Let us give it to you.

Oscar: …Okay. Okay, yeah. I think I’d like that.

Belle: Good. And you’re bringing Lily. I’ll blackmail Lando into bringing a playlist and making mocktails. 

Oscar: Thank you, Belle. Really.

Belle: Always. Now go pick your favorite sunglasses. You’re getting a party.

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: He’s not answering. Belle, he’s not answering any of my texts. Or calls. Since last night.

Belle: Lando?

Emilie: Yes. He read my message at like 2am and didn’t reply. And now he’s gone dark. I’m trying not to freak out but— Okay I’m freaking out.

Belle: Deep breath. He’s probably just trying to decompress. Hungary was a disaster and you know how he gets when he feels like he failed everyone.

Emilie: But he didn’t fail. McLaren failed him. And they made him watch it happen in real-time.

Belle: I know. But Lando’s the kind of person who carries blame even when it’s not his to carry. Especially if it’s Oscar on the other side of it.

Emilie: God. I just want to drag him out of whatever cave he’s sulking in and make him eat something. I keep checking Twitter like a lunatic.

Emilie: Belle— He looked wrecked on the podium. And McLaren acted like everything was fine. Like they didn’t just emotionally ransom him in real time.

Belle: Let me text him.

Emilie: You sure? I don’t want to overstep—

Belle: Em, it’s not overstepping when you care. And Lando cares about you. That’s why he’s hiding. But he’ll talk to me. He always does when he thinks no one else should worry.

Emilie: Please let me know if he answers. I’m just… worried.

Belle: I’ll text him. Promise.

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

Belle: Hey. I’m not here to push. Just letting you know I’m here when you’re ready.

Belle: Emilie’s worried. (So am I. But I won’t crowd you about it.) Just… maybe don’t go full ghost. You don’t have to be okay. But you don’t have to be alone either.

Belle: I watched the race. Every second. And I know what they did.

Belle: You didn’t lose.

You were put into an impossible situation by your team. You gave up a win so your teammate could have his moment. You drove with loyalty, with grace, with more heart than that entire pit wall put together. And it wasn’t fair.

Belle: I also know you’re probably thinking you don’t deserve comfort right now. That you let everyone down. You didn’t. You held the whole damn thing together until it cracked around you.

Lando: I’m here. Just didn’t know what to say. Still don’t, really.

Belle: You don’t have to say anything profound. Just… let someone know you’re breathing.

Lando: Barely. Feels like I’m stuck under it. The weight. The noise. Everyone has a take. And it’s all just too much.

Belle: Then let me be quiet with you. Or loud, if that helps. Whichever you need.

Lando: Oscar deserved the win. He did. But I hate how it happened.

Lando: And I hate that part of me is still wishing they’d let me have it. That feels… selfish.

Belle: It’s not selfish. It’s human. You fought like hell. You were brilliant. And you were betrayed by the people who were supposed to have your back. You’re allowed to grieve that.

Lando: I just keep thinking… if I had pushed anyway. If I’d ignored the call. If I’d just been selfish for once.

Belle: Then they would’ve crucified you. Turned you into the villain. You did the right thing. And they still broke your heart.

Lando: Yeah. That’s what it feels like.

Lando: Like I’m grieving something nobody else even noticed was lost.

Belle: I noticed. So did Max. So did Emilie. So did Oscar.

Lando: Oscar texted. I couldn’t answer. Emilie too. I couldn’t… I didn’t want them to think I blamed them.

Belle: They don’t. But they miss you. Especially Emilie. She’s halfway to turning up at your door with a backpack and emotional snacks. Text her. She’s losing her mind a little. Probably cried into a baguette this morning.

Lando: I don’t know what to say to her.

Belle: Try: “Hi, I’m alive. Sorry for being a dumb ghost boy. Miss you.” Bonus points if you throw in an emoji.

Lando: … Fine. I’ll text her. But only because you bullied me and I don’t want her to throw a baguette at my head.

Belle: Good.

Belle: Also. There’s a pool party at ours this weekend.

Lando: Is this a threat or an invitation

Belle: Yes.

Belle: Come. Max is barbecuing. Oscar’s being emotionally blackmailed into smiling. Emilie’s already picked out her floatie. I have lemon iced tea and three cats who miss you.

Lando: …Is it weird if I say I miss the cats too?

Belle: Deeply normal. One of them climbed into Max’s suitcase today like he was personally offended he wasn’t invited to the garage.

Lando: Okay. I’ll come. Just don’t… expect me to be the life of the party.

Belle: I don’t need you to be anything but you. Messy. Sad. Recovering. You’re allowed to take up space exactly as you are.

Lando: Thanks, Belle. Really.

***

Belle had always believed healing didn’t happen in grand gestures. It happened in the quiet.

It happened in things like grilled corn on a sunny patio. In the sound of Lando’s laugh — rusty, but real — echoing from the pool deck. In the way Oscar kept checking that Lily had enough sunscreen on, even though she was already under a parasol. In Emilie wearing sunglasses far too big for her face while floating across the water in a neon flamingo, sipping mocktail number three and pretending she wasn’t sneaking glances at Lando every five seconds.

It was in the smallness of it all. That���s where the cracks began to mend.

Belle sat on a lounger in the shade, legs curled under her, a book in her lap that she hadn’t turned a page of in at least twenty minutes. Her free hand rested absentmindedly over the curve of her belly. 

Max was at the grill with a look of serious concentration that made him look more like he was engineering a pit stop than flipping burgers. He’d already threatened to throw anyone who messed with his skewers into the pool.

The air smelled like coconut sunscreen, charcoal smoke, and fresh lemonade. A slow breeze ruffled the ivy growing along the stone wall. Everything was soft, warm, safe.

Lando was perched on the edge of a lounge chair near the shallow end, hair still wet, swim trunks clinging awkwardly to his legs after a stealth dunk by Oscar.

Belle had watched the shift in him happen slowly over the last hour. The way his shoulders dropped an inch. The way he let himself speak without weighing every syllable. The way Emilie, now dried off and sitting beside him with her towel around her shoulders, kept brushing her pinky against his like she was asking: Here? Can I meet you here?

And Lando — for once — didn’t flinch.

Oscar and Lily were sitting on the pool steps, water up to their waists, sharing a bag of chips like they were teenagers again. Belle caught Oscar watching Lando once, his face carefully unreadable, before he turned and whispered something to Lily that made her laugh and splash him.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was healing.

“Need anything?” Max asked, suddenly beside her, handing her a cold glass of lemon soda like he knew she was about to ask without having said a word.

Belle smiled up at him. “No. Just this.”

He sat down on the lounger beside her, his hand settling instinctively on the spot where their baby had kicked earlier that week. She leaned into him, and for a moment, there was no chaos, no paddock, no headlines — just Max and Belle and the quiet miracle they were building between them.

Across the patio, Lando called out, “Max! Your burger’s on fire!”

Max stood, dramatically offended. “It’s charred for flavor!”

Emilie snorted. “It’s charcoal, Verstappen.”

“Don’t insult the chef,” Belle murmured into her glass.

Lando grinned faintly. It didn’t reach all the way to his eyes — but it got closer.

Belle caught his gaze and lifted her glass in a silent toast.

To survival. To found families. To the summer that might finally give them all a little peace.

Lando nodded once, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Yeah. He got it.

And Belle — finally, fully — let herself exhale.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat 

 Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale. 

Pascale: I was thinking we should start planning the summer holiday. Maybe the coast? That little hotel in Antibes with the good croissants?

Arthur: Can we not do the same hotel again? Last time we went there the air conditioning broke and Charles nearly started a war with the concierge.

Charles: That’s because it was 40 degrees and they offered me a fan the size of a desert plate.

Lorenzo: Still better than the year we tried that cabin in the Alps and you forgot you hate nature.

Charles: There were bugs. I make no apologies.

Pascale: Anyway—Isabelle, chérie, can you look into accommodations again? You always find the nicest ones. ❤️

Belle: I won’t be joining this year.

Arthur: Wait, what?

Charles: You’re not coming?

Pascale: What do you mean?

Belle: Max and I already made plans with his family. We’re spending two weeks in the South of France — a villa by the coast. Just us and them.

Lorenzo: So you’re skipping the family holiday?

Belle: I’m not skipping. I’m just not the one planning it this time. If you want to go somewhere, you’ll have to coordinate it yourselves.

Pascale: Isabelle, I just thought— You’ve always been the one who organizes things. It’s tradition.

Belle: It’s also exhausting. I’d like a summer where I don’t feel invisible while trying to make everyone else comfortable.

Lorenzo: Belle… we didn’t mean to take that for granted.

Belle: I know. But you did. And this year? I’m choosing peace.

Charles: So we’re just… not doing anything all together?

Belle: You’re welcome to. But not with me trying to hold it all together. Not this time.

***

Instagram Stories: @/belleverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridwitches: belle verstappen really said “our love is loud even when it’s quiet” and now i have to lie down in traffic 🫠

@/formulagenz: “You don’t have to earn love by disappearing.” i’m crying in the work bathroom. this woman deserves the world.

@/paddocktea:  her saying “we weren’t ready for the noise” while still radiating the kind of peace most people spend years searching for??? iconic. queen energy. verstappen-level PR mastery without saying a single messy thing.

@/mclarendrama:  also @LandoNorris being outed as the unofficial wedding photographer?? please god let him have used portrait mode.

@/babyverstappenupdates baby verstappen is the size of a carrot, has an entire f1 grid of honorary uncles, a red bull onesie in production, and a mother who is effortlessly poetic even in a Q&A. i’m already obsessed with this child.

@/f1softies: can’t stop thinking about: – “he always makes sure I know I’m loved, even when no one else remembered.” – “the bump. and the dad.” – “don’t sell your riding boots. they’ll matter again.” this isn’t just a q&a. it’s a novel.

@/charlesupdates:  shoutout to belle for asking people not to send hate to her brothers. even after everything, she’s still trying to hold the peace. grace personified.

@/wagsupreme:  it’s the way belle confirmed her entire love story, baby, and career in one story drop and still managed to say “let us be a family, privately.” she’s the blueprint.

@/oscarstan03:  her being like “our baby is healthy, i’m grateful, lilly the cat is fierce” like girl you are the voice of a generation.

@/gridgirlie:  BELLE VERSTAPPEN JUST SAID “LOVE LIKE THIS IS LOUD EVEN WHEN IT’S QUIET” AND I NEED A MINUTE TO SOB IN MY CAR

@/f1nosyparkers:  “Because I wanted to be someone’s first thought, not a footnote.” THIS IS WHY I WILL DIE FOR HER

@/lanflorals: Lando Norris was the wedding photographer??? I’m sorry??? HE’S BEEN SITTING ON THESE PHOTOS LIKE A FERAL LITTLE SECRET KEEPER

@/redbullhoneybadger:  not belle casually saying she met max because he tried a bad pickup line on her I NEED TO KNOW WHAT THE LINE WAS WAS IT ABOUT TIRES? WAS IT “I’D PIT FOR YOU”?

@/paddockwives: “She doesn’t have to earn love by disappearing” “She visits Fleur every week” “She calls the baby a little Verstappen” “She’s still working” “She’s exactly where she’s meant to be” NO BUT I AM A BELLE GIRL FOREVER

@/belleleclercupdates:  belle: please don’t send hate to my brothers she’s class. she’s grace. she’s emotionally destroying them without raising her voice.

@/sunnyforoscar:  “don’t harass them. we’re family. a fractured one, but still family.” she’s giving boundaries AND compassion how is she this composed???

@/babyverstappenfanclub:  THE BABY IS THE SIZE OF A CARROT. I REPEAT. THE BABY IS A CARROT. I love them already.

@/leclercguiltposting:  Belle: asks people not to send hate Also Belle: answers every question with poise, kindness, and veiled emotional warfare I see why Charles is in shambles.

@/paddocktea:  Belle asking people not to send hate to her brothers???? A better person than me tbh Because if my family forgot my birthday and I was pregnant and GLOWING like that??? They’d be BLOCKED 💅

@/emotionaldnf:  “don’t sell your riding boots. they’ll matter again.” BELLE??? STOP??? I CAN’T BREATHE????

@/lanverstappensimp:   i’m sorry but imagine max taking a pickup line shot in a bar and it ended with marriage and a baby he WINS. he WINS AT LIFE.

@/danielricciardosburner: imagine going to a Q&A for fun and getting:

therapy

a life lesson

cat pics

baby updates

confirmation that Max Verstappen is completely whipped i need to lie down.

@/gridwivesupreme: i keep thinking about “don’t harass my brothers. that doesn’t help anyone.” like… she’s STILL trying to shield them from the fallout. even now.

that’s not just grace — that’s trauma reflex.

@/gridsleuths:  no bc the entire tone of her answers is so quiet but final “we’re still family, but let us do this privately” babe. that’s a boundary forged from burn scars

@/charlesgirlfail: idk how to explain it but belle’s entire vibe is

“i don’t hate you, i just finally stopped needing you to care”

which is somehow 1000x more devastating

@/emotionaldnf:  i’m convinced belle spent years showing up for people who never remembered her coffee order and max took one look and said: not on my watch

@/sunflowersoftgrid

her talking about her old riding boots and how she thought she had to earn love by disappearing…

you could feel the silence she grew up in

you could feel how loud max’s love must’ve been by comparison

@/underratedwags: 

the Q&A was soft and graceful but like… the subtext??

– never mentions a Leclerc attending the wedding

– references her husband and her baby and her horses before her family

the silence is screaming

@/f1sleuths: 📌 Thread: How bad is Belle Verstappen’s relationship with her family, really? Because after that Q&A… yeah. Let’s unpack. 🧵

@/f1sleuths: 1.  First of all, the line “I wanted to be someone’s first thought, not a footnote”??? That’s not shade. That’s a funeral for unmet needs. That’s someone who’s been sidelined for years.

@/f1sleuths: 2. She said:

“We weren’t ready for the noise.” And then: “For once, I wanted to be someone’s first thought.” And then: “You don’t have to earn love by disappearing.” Tell me that woman hasn’t been begging to be seen her entire life.

@/f1sleuths: 3. Also let’s talk about how she didn’t deny anything. She didn’t say “my family and I are fine.”  She said:

“We are family — a fractured one, maybe, but still family.” That “maybe” is loud. That “still” is tired. That whole line is someone choosing compassion without pretending everything’s okay.

@/f1sleuths: 4. She also said “don’t send my brothers hate,” which is usually something people only have to say when… people are sending hate. And why are people sending hate? Because this family ignored her for so long that people noticed.

5. Let’s not forget:

The birthday her family forgot

The wedding they didn’t attend. (Because they were not on that wedding picture she posted.)

The horse story (I’m still crying over Blanche) This isn’t a one-time fight. This is a pattern.

@/f1sleuths: 6.  Meanwhile, the Verstappens have:

Flew in for the wedding

Max got her a horse she lost in childhood

Victoria posted a photo of Belle organizing the baby’s nursery

I’m sorry but the contrast is BLINDING.

@/f1sleuths: 7. “Love like this is loud even when it’s quiet.” = I didn’t grow up with this kind of love. And I don’t know how anyone reads it differently.

@/f1sleuths: 8. This is not about drama. It’s about a girl who spent years being told (implicitly or otherwise) that she didn’t matter as much as the rest of them. And now? She’s with someone who shows her every day that she does.

@/f1sleuths: 9. Final thought: Belle didn’t air her family’s dirty laundry. She didn’t name names. She didn’t point fingers. She just told the truth — hers — quietly. And somehow it was louder than anything they’ve ever said.@/f1sleuths: 10. Anyway. I hope Belle gets everything she never thought she could have. And I hope the Leclercs are listening. Because the rest of us? We hear her loud and clear.

[orphicmusings]

“give me ten minutes and a pillow for his hips”

18+ | MDNI

its not that viktor didn’t want to devour you. take you in the almost impossible positions he’d widen his eyes at reading about when he got bored in the library, attempting to anatomically sketch it out on a napkin to visualize how it would work hastily before anyone came in and caught him flipping through an erotic novel. and he would, through the pain, it would be so worth it— if not for your gentle consideration. the one thing sexier than your dazed face looking up at him, all heated cheeks and hooded eyes, was how perceptive you were— how well you knew him, how well you saw him. you were attuned to him now, an invisible string between you. a phenomenon he could never sit down and wrap his big head around, just how connected the two of you had become that you barely needed words to communicate sometimes. like, for example, an abrupt whine sneakily covered by the clearing of his throat.

you were both excited and apprehensive when he brought up wanting to be on top tonight. you knew he would be putting pressure on his bad leg and of course you brought it up, but the way his voice dipped in velvet and wrapped around you, the lyrical lilt in his accent becoming hushed and deeper as he detailed how he wanted you under him, he wanted to take you, claim you, devour you with no inhibitions. his silver tongue won against your worried left brain, twice technically, until you heard it— the slightest change of rhythm in the strum of your little connective string.

“viktor?” you lifted your head. “what was that?”

he took a deep breath and buried his head in the crook of your neck. “nothing, darling.” he punctuated his assurance was a distracting suckle on your skin. and god, you almost gave in again, almost, but you gently tilted his head up and looked into his darkened eyes. “didn’t sound like nothing.”

damn you and your perceptive skills. he loves them so much.

another deep breath leaves him, and before he could wave it off, you press him. “it’s your leg, isn’t it?” you ask, already knowing the answer, and he can’t lie to you.

“yes.” he breathed in surrender. “i’m sorry, my love i really wanted to-what are you doing?” he frowned, watching you roll out from under him and grab one of the pillows on his bed.

“armchair, now.” you pointed to the chair across the room, with the plush ottoman in front of it that you gifted him. he couldn’t help but let a smirk pull at the corners of his mouth.

“bossy.” yet, he obeyed and made his way over to you. you gave him the pillow, instructing him to put it under his hip as he sat down, making sure his leg was elevated on the ottoman. once you got him all situated, you didn’t even have time to ask if it felt better before he was grabbing the back of your neck and kissing you like a man starved. you melted into his touch, straddling him but careful not to apply too much pressure. “so fucking sweet.” he pants the praise huskily into your mouth. “too good to me.”

his hands traveled down your body to grip your hips, pulling you flush to him. you started grinding slowly, and he guided you, a shaky breath leaving your mouth before you even got to the main event. every noise from your mouth caused a shiver to run down his spine, striking him with irrational need— he didn’t care that the things he wanted to do to you would make him scream in pain, he felt that he would simply die if he couldn’t fuck you the way he pictured it in his head right now.

but then he looks at you, just as dazed and hungry on top of him as you were under him, and a smile creeps up on him. it doesn’t matter if he were to throw you down and ravage you like a love interest in those books, or if you were softly bouncing on his length, burying your little sighs and whimpers into the crook of his neck, he’s still pleasing you. he’s still enough for you. he exhaled a smirk.

“none of that, darling.” he lifted your jaw to meet his eyes. “wanna see you and hear you. can you do that for me?” you nodded, struggling to keep your head up in the throes of pleasure, but having no trouble letting your mouth run wild with curses and praises and whines and whimpers. and it was all music to his ears. “that’s it, sweet girl.” his voice came ragged as he reached his long fingers to press on your clit. you all but screamed, tugging gently on the curls of the nape of his neck. he whined and threw his head back.

“am i hurting you?” you asked hoarsely, your hand hovering over his hair. he shook his head adamantly, taking your hand and tangling it back in his hair himself. each thrust would earn a tug, and each tug would earn a pretty noise from him, causing another push to each of your edges.

“love you….” he whispered against the skin of your neck, pressing a kiss against it as you both reached your peaks, breathing heavily against each other. “love you so much.”

[suiana]

yandere! hitman and hitman reader who are always at each other's throats, trying to kill one another.

somehow, someway, he's fallen for you. must be because of how often he's in contact with you, trying to kill you and claim the bounty over your head. or maybe it's the way you're able to keep up with him, to evade all his kill attempts despite him being one of the best hitmen in the country.

maybe it's the way you're simply... perfect.

so when your bounty suddenly raises a whole bunch, and a whole army of other hitmen get sent to kill you... he's a little more than just pissed.

"only i get to kill you."

he hisses, clearing the wave of people effortlessly as he makes his way over to you. he's angry. really angry. so angry that he doesn't even take a second look before killing someone. no one shall stand in between him and his beloved target after all.

he spots you on the ground, panting and heaving. god, there's his baby. all injured and on display for him. he can't name a more beautiful sight than this.

"fuck, you're so beautiful like this."

the hitman spits, gripping your cheeks painfully tight. a smirk crosses his face, your blood dripping down his fingers. he pulls away, licking at the tangy liquid before connecting his lips with yours.

the kiss is hot, needy. he doesn't even give you a chance to breathe before he's slapping you across the face, the heel of his boot stepping you on your ribs.

"should i just kill you now, huh? bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? kill you and get your bounty, kill this disgusting feeling in my chest."

but he pauses, eyes narrowing at the sight of your bruised and tattered body. a sharp pain shoots through him and he falls to the ground, clutching at his chest.

"fuck! ugh..."

"h-haha... you'd think... I'd die without bringing you down with me?"

an invisible string connects to your fingers and it all clicks in his mind. sneaky little thing, he scoffs. of course you'd pull a trick like that. it's so like you.

"you think that'll work on me?"

"no... but... it'll curse you... probably..."

he barks out a laugh, pulling the string away from his torso. his hands brush his chest, swatting away all the invisible dirt that got onto him from the fall.

"you're so stupid."

and then an ingenious idea pops into his mind. why hadn't he thought of this before? it's just... so fucking brilliant!

"say, what if i keep you instead?"

[naivety]

sorry but i will always be able to get along more with a white trash trump supporter than i ever can with a middle to upper class moderate like you guys are INtolerable to speak with about anything other than the weather and americal idol

[isabelckl]

meeting ellie in detention

nerdy ellie williams x popular fem!reader

detention has always been boring—until the last person you expected walks in. now you’re stuck in the same room, and it’s a lot harder to ignore her.

Detention. Again. Second time this month.

You’re slouched low in the hard plastic chair, spine curved in a way that probably screams "I give up," the edge of the desk digging uncomfortably into your ribs. One leg bounces under the table, the sole of your shoe scuffing softly against the floor with every twitch. The room smells faintly like Expo markers and teenage boredom, warm dust floating in streaks of light pouring through slatted blinds. The air conditioner hums in the ceiling like it’s trying too hard and still failing to cool anything down.

Your head hangs forward, a lazy weight, chin nearly touching your chest as you idly flick at the fake nail on your middle finger — the one that went flying across the cafeteria when you slapped the ever-loving shit out of Victoria during lunch. It clicks against your nailbed with each flick, a tiny, hollow sound that breaks the silence like a metronome for your regret.

You exhale sharply through your nose, lips twitching into a sour twist.

“I should’ve just let that bitch go,” you think to yourself, dragging your head back until it flops against the top of your seat with a dramatic, whispered groan.

The oversized clock on the wall ticks with cruel precision, every second dragging its heels like it's stuck in glue. The teacher — some substitute whose name you didn’t bother to catch — is half-asleep at their desk, hunched over a crossword puzzle or a book with the spine cracked flat. They're not even pretending to watch you. It's one of those afternoons where the heat makes everything slow, where even trouble feels sluggish and tired.

You’re just about to give in to the heaviness tugging at your eyelids, your cheek halfway to the cool surface of the desk, when the door creaks open with an uncertain squeal.

Your eyebrows lift.

Huh?

“You’re here,” you blurt out before you can catch the words, your voice cutting through the haze like a pebble tossed into still water. You sit up straighter, something in you crackling awake with sharp interest.

Ellie Williams steps into the room like she’s not sure if she belongs — the usual quiet type, always either with headphones on, a guitar slung across her back, or buried somewhere in the library behind a stack of sci-fi novels and sketchpads. Her eyes flit up and meet yours for a moment before darting away. Then she scans the room like she’s searching for the least cursed seat available.

“You can sit here,” you offer, nodding at the empty chair beside you. Your voice is casual, but there’s a flicker of curiosity you don’t bother hiding.

“I guess...” she mutters, rubbing the back of her neck with the palm of her hand. She moves like she’s being dragged by invisible strings — hesitant, stiff — and drops into the seat beside you like she’s expecting it to collapse underneath her.

You tilt your head, crossing your arms and letting your eyes roam, not subtle about it. Her flannel sleeves are rolled up, revealing a faint ink smudge near her wrist. There’s a nervous energy buzzing off her in low frequency, barely noticeable unless you’re this close.

“What?” you ask, a spark of challenge in your tone.

Ellie glances at you, brows drawing inward. “What?”

You squint like you’re staring at a half-finished painting, trying to figure out what’s missing. “Nothing. Just… Ellie Williams, in detention, here with me? You’re like the last person I expected to see.”

She stares at you for a second, then looks away, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t know you knew my name,” she says, soft and matter-of-fact, like that’s what surprised her the most.

You let out a small, amused laugh. “Of course I know your name. We’re classmates in like… two subjects. You sit three rows over in Calc, always solving problems before the teacher even finishes writing them on the board.”

Ellie shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, her fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her jeans. She looks like you’ve just peeled back something she’s spent years sewing shut.

“So what did you do?” you ask, leaning in just slightly, eyes gleaming with interest. “Come on, I need something to keep me entertained.”

She gives you a look, equal parts wary and annoyed. “No.”

“Oh, come on. I just wanna know what got you here. I mean, I’m here because I bitch-slapped Victoria for spreading a fake rumor about me.” You say it like a badge of honor, chin lifted slightly. “Your turn.”

Ellie lets out a breath, glancing down at her hands again. Her nails are short, bitten at the edges. She chuckles quietly, a low, sheepish sound. “It’s lame.”

“Come on,” you nudge her with your elbow, grinning now.

She doesn’t respond, just offers the ghost of a smile and goes back to staring at the graffiti scratched into the desk.

You sigh and flop back into your seat again. “Fine. I get it. First time in detention. Gotta preserve your image.”

She side-eyes you, and this time, there’s a smirk pulling at her mouth like she’s trying to suppress it. “Why would you think I’m the last person you’d see here?” she asks, her voice lower, curious.

You scoff under your breath and rest your arm on the back of her chair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Because you’re just... good.”

Her brow arches.

“I mean, a great example of a model student,” you continue, motioning vaguely in her direction. “You’re, like, top of our calculus class, probably gonna graduate with honors or whatever. And you draw, right? I saw some of your stuff in art class. The charcoal sketches.”

She stares at you now, like she’s hearing you through a tunnel. “You knew that?” she says, voice soft with disbelief.

“Yeah.” You roll your eyes a little, but there’s no bite in it. “I pay attention.”

Ellie smiles — not fully, just a quiet, private curve of her lips — and bites the inside of her cheek like she’s trying to hide it.

“No talking,” the teacher calls out without lifting their eyes.

You roll your eyes again and settle into silence, the kind that’s thick but not uncomfortable. The ticking clock sounds louder now, each second ricocheting off the pale classroom walls. Somewhere outside, a locker slams shut, followed by faint, echoing laughter. But your focus is stuck on the girl next to you — the way her fingers drum softly against the desk, the quiet way she breathes, how her knee is still barely an inch from yours.

You rest your chin in your hand, elbow propped on the desk, still watching her. Ellie stares straight ahead like she’s forcing herself not to glance your way. Like she can feel you looking and isn’t sure what to do about it.

“So...” you murmur, voice low and casual, “are you doing anything later?”

Ellie turns her head a fraction. “Uh, nothing... I think. Why?”

“Wanna go to a party with me? Just a house thing at Kendra’s.”

She blinks, clearly caught off guard, and gives you a look like you just asked her to go skydiving. “Why would I go to a party with you?”

You shrug, leaning back. “Nothing serious. Just wondered. Have you ever been to one?”

“Well... yeah. But not the kind of party you’re talking about.”

You squint, amused now. “And what kind is that?”

She shrugs, but there’s a glint in her eyes. “The ‘your kind’ kind. You know... boys and stuff.”

You snort. “Boys and stuff? Seriously?”

Ellie shrugs again, her smirk widening just enough to make your stomach flip.

“No one’s gonna make you do anything, y’know,” you add, raising an eyebrow at her, voice softer now, like an unspoken promise.

She hesitates, her eyes flicking to yours, then down to her lap. The pause stretches — not uncomfortable, just thoughtful — and then she nods slowly.

“I guess so. I could come.”

“Great. It'll be fun,” you say, a grin tugging at your lips as you lean back, arms crossing. There’s a fizz of electricity in your chest now, subtle but undeniable.

There’s a pause again — not awkward, just… still. The kind that stretches long enough for you to start wondering what’s going on in her head. You glance over, your voice a little softer now, curious instead of teasing.

“So... do you, like, have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend?”

Ellie lets out a low laugh — short and breathy, like you caught her off guard. “Nah. Why?”

You lean your shoulder against the back of your chair, studying her expression as if it might give something away. “What’s your type, then?” you ask, tossing it out like it’s no big deal, like it’s just a casual, meaningless question — even though it kind of isn’t.

She glances at you sideways, her brow arching. “Why are you asking me that?”

You smirk, shrugging lazily. “So I can set you up with someone later. Maybe.”

Ellie scoffs, rolling her eyes — but there’s no real bite to it. “Didn’t you just say no one’s gonna make me do anything? And now you’re trying to play matchmaker?”

“I just wanna try,” you say, nudging her foot lightly under the desk. “C’mon, it'd be cute.”

She shakes her head slowly, but there’s a smile creeping onto her lips — small, like she’s trying to hold it back but failing. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Then, quieter this time, eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden desk, she says, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

You nod, and it’s not teasing now — there’s something softer in the way you do it, something that says you’re listening. That maybe you understand more than you’re letting on.

She glances up, eyes flicking toward you, just a little narrower now. Like she’s testing the waters. “How about you? Nathan?”

You blink, caught off guard, then immediately grimace. “Nathan? Nathan fucking Walsh? No way. Do people seriously think we hooked up?”

Ellie doesn’t answer — just lifts her eyebrows like, You tell me.

You groan, scrubbing a hand over your face. “Ugh, that’s a no. Like, a no-in-hell situation. I’d rather set myself on fire.”

Ellie actually laughs — a real one this time. It spills out of her unfiltered, her head tilting back just slightly. It’s soft, a little scratchy, and it warms something in your chest.

You can’t help but grin, cheeks already aching. “So… you’re coming with me later?”

She looks at you, really looks this time — like she’s trying to figure out what the hell she just got herself into. Her eyes flick between yours and the floor before she finally nods once.

“Yeah. Okay.”

The music is already pulsing through the house by the time you catch sight of her. It spills out the front door in a steady, throbbing rhythm, matched only by the flicker of string lights and silhouettes moving behind fogged-up windows. Ellie steps in with a slight hesitation, like the air is thicker here — like she’s walking into somewhere she’s not sure she belongs, but she's here anyway. A red solo cup is cradled loosely in her hand. Her shoulders are squared, jaw set, but her eyes move like she’s absorbing everything, scanning for a place to land.

Then they find you.

You spot her from across the room and light up, warmth blooming across your face, already flushed from the shots you took earlier. You break away from your group mid-sentence, weaving through a haze of cologne, sweat, and perfume until you reach her. Your grin is crooked, wide. “Heyyy,” you say, dragging the word out with a giddy lilt as you throw your arms around her.

Your balance tips a little on your heels — you’re slightly tipsy, full of heat and laughter — and Ellie catches you with a hand at your waist. Her grip is hesitant but steady. You’re aware of how solid she feels, how warm, how she doesn’t pull away even though she totally could.

“You really came,” you say against her ear, breath brushing the shell of it.

“I said I would,” she replies, voice quiet, like the volume of the house makes her want to retreat into herself. She looks down at you, eyes soft. The button-up she’s wearing is wrinkled at the edges, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and she smells faintly like clean laundry — sharp and comforting — mixed with the burn of something stronger. Whiskey, maybe.

You take her cup without asking, taking a sip and wrinkling your nose playfully before handing it back. “You’re late,” you say, tugging her by the wrist, your fingers lacing lightly around hers as you pull her toward the kitchen.

Ellie doesn’t resist. She follows you into the warmth and chaos of the party, and you hand her a shot before raising your own. She downs it without a grimace — like it’s nothing — then does the second one just the same.

You blink, impressed. “I thought you were all straight-edge,” you tease, nudging her elbow with yours.

She shrugs, lips curling at the edge. “Never said that.”

You laugh, leaning a little too close as your balance shifts again. “You’re full of surprises, Ellie Williams.”

The two of you end up at the edge of the kitchen, leaning against the counter while people move around you in waves. The music swells and falls, conversations weaving together in fragments. You’re mostly talking — telling stories, rambling through your buzz — while Ellie listens, her body angled just enough toward you to show she’s paying attention. Her green eyes flick over your face like she’s memorizing something, and every now and then, her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile.

Your fingers brush her forearm more than once. She doesn’t pull away.

At some point — you’re not sure when — someone drags you onto the dance floor. It’s hot and crowded, all limbs and flickering light, and you don’t remember if it was your idea or hers, but suddenly you’re dancing. Ellie’s hand is at your waist, grounding you in the motion, keeping you upright as you spin and stumble and laugh into her shoulder.

“Okay, okay, I’m done, I’m too drunk,” you wheeze out, laughter bubbling up. Your feet trip over each other, and you lean heavily into her as she catches you, both hands sliding to your hips, steady and firm.

You look up, breath warm against her neck, your heart hammering somewhere near your throat. Your cheeks are flushed — from the alcohol, the heat, her. “What if,” you say slowly, words slurring just a little, “what if the person I wanted to set you up with… is me?”

Ellie goes still.

She’s staring at you, eyes wide, mouth parted like she wasn’t expecting that. Her breath catches — just barely — but she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t laugh it off or deflect. Instead, she leans in close, her lips brushing your ear.

“Let’s get out of here,” she murmurs.

You nod, barely thinking.

Everything becomes a blur of color and heat and motion. Upstairs, the bass from the music fades into a dull thump beneath your feet. You barely make it through the threshold of some stranger’s bedroom before Ellie’s lips are on yours, and your back hits the wall with a soft thud. Her hands are everywhere — in your hair, along your jaw, gripping your thighs as she lifts you up slightly, your legs tightening instinctively around her waist.

You’re breathless. Dizzy. Drunk off her mouth, her warmth, the way she kisses like she’s wanted to for a while and finally stopped holding back. Your hands are under her shirt, fingers skimming hot skin, tugging her closer, closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat and want and the sound of your own gasping breaths.

It’s messy. A little desperate. But god — you've never wanted anything more.

[kanescrochet]

Shades of Silence

Simon 'ghost' Riley X Overlooked!Reader

1130 words

pure fluff

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time she spoke to Ghost, she was holding a clipboard and a cracked radio, trying not to cry.

The comms van had fried again. Nothing unusual. Just one more thing she couldn’t fix fast enough, one more failure in a long string of being not-quite-good-enough. The others didn’t even glance at her anymore — she was background noise in ill-fitting fatigues, frizzy hair tied back with a pencil, eyes hollow from too many nights of not sleeping.

But Ghost stopped.

He stood a few paces away, silent beneath his skull mask, unreadable as always. She wasn’t even sure he’d noticed her until he spoke.

“You alright?”

It was the most anyone had said to her all day.

She blinked. Nodded.

He didn’t press. Just stood there a little longer. Not like he was judging. Like he was… giving her space to come back to herself.

She expected him to leave. Instead, he crouched beside the van and looked under the dash.

“Relay’s fried. You’ve got a spare?”

She hesitated, then knelt beside him, brushing dust from her knees.

“Yeah. In the kit. Just didn’t think anyone’d care.”

“I care if it’s going to get us all killed.”

There was no edge in his voice. No scolding. Just fact.

They fixed it in silence.

When they were done, he stood and gave a small nod. “Good work.”

Then he left.

It was the first time she’d felt real in weeks.

He didn’t seek her out. Not at first. But she started noticing him — not the way everyone else did, not with awe or fear. She saw how he lingered in the corners of rooms, how his gaze tracked exits, how he never really relaxed, even when he sat. He looked like a man stitched together with caution and regret.

But he was also the only one who ever called her by name.

Not “hey you” or “tech” or “supply.” Just her name. Like she wasn’t invisible.

She didn’t know what he saw in her. She was awkward, soft-bodied, quiet. People didn’t flirt with her. They barely spoke to her unless they needed something. But Ghost… he looked at her like he noticed things other people didn’t. Like when her hands trembled or when her eyes were darker than usual from crying in the motor pool.

He never asked.

He just started showing up more.

Once, he handed her a protein bar and didn’t say anything when she muttered thanks without meeting his eyes. Another time, he stood next to her during a debrief, his silent presence making the room feel less like it was caving in. And once — after a mission went south and they lost a man she barely knew but still felt the loss of — she found a note on her desk.

“You don’t have to carry it alone.” No name. Just that.

But she knew it was from him.

They weren’t close. Not officially. No one would’ve called it anything.

But people started looking.

Because Ghost, who didn’t talk to anyone, lingered near the quiet girl in comms. And she, who never smiled, started looking less like she was bracing for the world to break.

They spoke in fragments. In glances. In moments that didn’t look like anything to someone on the outside.

But to her, it was everything.

He didn’t ask her to be anything she wasn’t. He didn’t expect her to be bubbly, or sexy, or less of herself. He didn’t flinch when she admitted she hated mirrors or avoided eating in front of others. He just accepted it. All of it.

“You don’t talk much,” she said once, when they sat beneath a flickering floodlight at the edge of base.

“Neither do you,” he replied.

“I’m just not good at people.”

He turned his head, eyes unreadable behind the skull.

“People aren’t good at you. That’s different.”

She didn’t know what she saw in him at first.

At a distance, he was cold. All mask and menace. The kind of man who stepped into a room and made everyone instinctively clear a path. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t chat. Didn’t offer comfort.

But she watched. She always had been a watcher.

And what she saw — slowly, quietly — was something else.

He was the first to enter dangerous zones and the last to sleep. He always positioned himself near the exits in case something went wrong. He walked the perimeter twice, even when no one asked him to. He memorized the names of the rookies and corrected anyone who got them wrong. He carried guilt like a second skin, even if no one could see it — but she could.

He didn’t speak his care. He showed it.

In the way he passed her water when she looked like she hadn’t eaten. In the way he never touched her without giving her time to see him coming. In the way he noticed her silences weren’t the same every day — and treated them accordingly.

He moved through the world like a man who’d been broken more than once, and who was now determined to be unbreakable. But it wasn’t pride that made him that way.

It was protection.

Of others. Of himself. Of whatever small thing inside him hadn’t yet been shattered.

And maybe that was what drew her in — not the danger, not the mask, not the image.

It was the effort.

The quiet, constant effort he made to keep others safe without asking for anything in return.

She didn’t want someone who swept her off her feet. She wanted someone who wouldn’t drop her.

And Ghost never did.

He didn’t ask her to smile. Didn’t try to pull her out of her shell like a project. He simply… met her where she was.

And she, in turn, learned to meet him in his silence.

Their conversations were short. Muted. But heavy with meaning.

He said her name like it mattered. Not sweetly. Not gently. Just intentionally. With respect.

When she was having a bad day — really bad — she didn’t have to say a word. He could tell. And instead of asking what was wrong, he’d sit beside her without speaking. Sometimes that was all she needed.

He never told her about his past. But she saw enough to fill in the blanks. The scars. The way he startled if a door slammed too loud. The way he stiffened when someone raised their voice. The way he refused to talk about certain cities, certain names, certain dates.

She didn’t need to know everything.

She just needed to let him be.

And that, more than anything, was what made him stay.

He wasn’t used to being left alone without being left behind.

But she did both.

And he came back. Every time.